Fleur Delacour's Year of Living Dangerously
by Femme Teriyaki
Summary: The Life, Times, Loves, and Lusts of Fleur Delacour via her private diary. After being Americanized, Mugglefied, & seduced by MTV, can Fleur ever get back to normal? No... but it'll be fun watching her try...
1. January: The Undivine Intervention

_Fleur Delacour's Year of Living Dangerously_

By Femme Teriyaki

Disclaimer: These characters are the figment of J. K. Rowling's imagination. I do not claim to own these characters. This writing style (_à la_ Bridget Jones), I owe to Helen Fielding.

Summary: A tale of Lusts and Loves via Fleur Delacour's private diary. After Fleur Delacour is sufficiently Americanized and, worse still, Mugglefied, is there any way she can return to her normal wizarding, French self? No. But it'll be fun watching her try… Welcome to a year in the life of a self-mocking, self-deprecating, low-self-esteem drama queen.

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**January: **The Un-Divine Intervention / the De-Mugglefication of Fleur Delacour

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**Day One of Free Independence**

**Monday, January 17****th**

**On train, leaving King's Cross**

**7:13 AM**

**7:13 a.m. – **They cut me off. First they Mugglefied me, then they cut me off! My parents told me to get Mugglefied, to get acquainted with the way Muggles live and act—they cut me off from the wizarding community for a year, with nothing but _owls_ to communicate with. Supposedly, such a jarring entry into the way the "other half lives" was supposed to show me the true value of my Beauxbatons education.

In this year of Mugglefication, I fell in love with Orlando Bloom and Jude Law at the same time, cried when Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston broke up, booed that other Simpson girl, and watched _Napoleon Dynamite_ sixteen times. It was a true cultural experience. I discovered MTV, then discovered VH1 (and threw MTV _dans la poubelle). _Ibecame a slave to the internet, American Express, MasterCard, _and _Visa, and became unduly obsessed with this thing called "fan fiction." America was _delightful, _but it allegedly had a few adverse effects on me. (My family is threatening to block channels for every time I say "like," "whatever," "seriously," and "duh.") The only adverse affect I see is this: Now, now that I have finally adjusted to the Muggle way of living—they've cut me off!

They took my credit cards (all six of them) and cut them in half. They said they'd "been coddling me too long," and told me that I would no longer be living at their expense—what they meant, of course was: Get a J-O-B. They've sent me back to the Wizarding World, and now I'm job interviewing—at Hogwarts. I know, right? Endless joy…

**7:24 a.m. – **I miss Muggle food. Treacle tarts aboard trains are fantastic and all… but I'd kill for McDonalds right now. In the truly American way, I have gained twenty pounds and have been put on a diet; my parents believe that I am grotesquely overweight and have sent many, many diet books with me to Hogwarts. On pain of death, I will begin Pilates. More joy.

**7:32** **a.m. **– List of things to do, starting now, to start losing my a) American-ness b) Muggle-ness and c) weight:

1) No more watching VH1—this will not be _une __très grande_ _problemme_. Benefits: Will be off of bum and thus inhibiting further weight gain; will be losing both American-ness and Muggle-ness in process. Can devote more time to Windsor Pilates and Kathy, the chipper woman on the cover of the book.

2) Will begin South Beach Diet as well. Will spend so much of time watching food, there will be no time left to indulge in Muggle pleasures.

3) Will lower daily calorie intake 10 calories for every time "like," "duh," "seriously," or "whatever," is used. 20 calories if in public. (Imperative: must not contribute to negative blonde stereotypes.) 5 if writing and 2 if just thinking.

4) Will write to family _en français _daily, to regain some of French-ness.

5) Will refrain from use of American curses. Though they do roll of the tongue. _I digress!_

6) Will not compare life to that of Keira Knightley and become jealous basket-case.

7) Will sadly destroy Orlie and Jude posters. Will convince self to give away _Pirates of the Caribbean _DVD. (Permission to cry at such occasion is granted.)

8) Will stop sitting on bum reading American trashy books. Will settle for sitting on bum reading French trashy books about witches and wizards. Will _not_ cast Jude Law _or_ Orlando Bloom in the title roles.

9) Will not think about internet and/or email. Will not wish for a real-life "Control-F" option, _because that is what magic is for. _Will not think of cyber-boyfriend, Michael.

10) MUST BREAK UP WITH AMERICAN CYBER-BOYFRIEND.

**7:45 a.m.** – Am standing outside of Hogwarts, not quivering _at all_. Granted, the last time I was here was an embarrassing disaster resulting in numerous near and actual fatalities, among these the death of any remote chance of personal competency. However, I'm sure that Hogwarts isn't a festival of hormones, human sacrifices, and sexual harassment all the time. Plus, that freaky Draco kid's probably graduated. I'm cool. I'm fine. _Chouette. On y va. _Step inside.

**8:00 a.m. – **Am v. afraid to step inside. Will be speaking to Headmaster, Endearing McGandalf-Face, and will face Bushy Haired Smart Girl Who Frightens and Hates Me. Will collapse under strain. Will need unlimited amounts of caffeine.

**NTS**: De-necessitate thyself off of coffee. Will only cause weight gain and unhappiness.

**8:13 a.m.** – Had _une conversation constructive__ avec_ Professor Dumbledore. Believes would make good teacher's assistant and should start there before moving up, progressing in the world, speaking aloud, etc. Apparently, should sit in on each class before deciding which teacher to assist. Awkwardly enough, _Messieurs _Snape and Flitwick fell over when I opened the door. Dirty snoops. Am v. tired, but convinced that no coffee is needed. Will not be tempted to ask little house-elf _qui __me suit constamment_ for any. BE STRONG, FLEUR. _Il faut que je sois forte!_

Dear God. Am feeling v. fat today. Must, at advice of _mes parents_, begin _Un Petit Journal de la Nourriture _today.

Breakfast: _Un croissant_ _avec chocolat _(will forgive self later). Orange juice.

Snack: Three chocolate frogs.

Snack (part II): You know those little wafer straws, with the chocolate on the inside? Those. I wasn't really counting.

Conclusion: Weakness, thy name is chocolate.

**9:02 a.m.** – Have been terribly weak all day long, not just from the deprivation of essential food groups, i.e. coffee, things drizzled in chocolate, frozen and sweetened dairy products, éclairs, etc. No, also weak in terms of resolve, as have been thinking desperately of credit cards. Oh, what I'd give to have _ma petite _American Express back! But my parents have snapped them all in half—I can no longer shop in the state of New York, in Paris, London, _or _Sydney. Everywhere you want to be, my _derriere. _The tragedy of my circumstance almost makes me feel poetic.

_Deny thy credit and refuse thy cash! Or if thou wilt not, but be sworn by fashion, and I'll no longer be an expert shopper! _

Oh, to have my American Express again…

**9:30 a.m.** – Have courageously decided to sit in on Potions first. Have noticed Bushy Haired Smart Girl (BHSG) glaring at me. Professor currently believes am taking notes. Said professor will not stop staring at new, business-like sweater. Am feeling v. uncomfortable. WHY WON'T SHE STOP **GLARING** AT ME???

Perhaps she is threatened. Believes will steal affections of certain _messieurs_? Believes am not fat and disgusting, but rather attractive and thin? (If so, is _très folle_.) Wishes to defend slightly cute, red-haired freckled boy to left from my affections? Or rather… dashing… and desirable… Boy Who Lived to right?

Students. Fleur. _Students! _Very illegal thoughts; will subtract 100 calories from diet in order to compensate for such perversity.

Harry Potter: currently 16 years old; Fleur: currently 19 years old. Illegal! And not at all charming in the Demi Moore – Ashton Kutcher sense of it, at all.

**NTS:** Must stall such Lustification until July.

**5:30 PM** – Have calmed self down; am stifling growing Lustification for HP, as is appropriate. Will not cross BHSG—apparently, she goes by Hermione Granger. Have discarded Orlie and Jude posters, but have kept _POC_. Realizing that this is because Orlie in action is better than Orlie on paper. Even if he is life-size.

Affolé d'Affaires Courant:

Name: Fleur Delacour.

Height: five foot seven.

Weight: a disgusting amount which equals X.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Stifling.

Cyber-boyfriend: Relationship thriving against will.

Favorite Class SF: Flitwick (is nice despite supreme oldness)

Least SF: Snape (classes filled with odd innuendo usually directed _à moi;_ seems to despise HP, possibly due to jealousy over HP's gene pool).

Pilates Minutes: 4

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 35

Jude-thinking Minutes: 30

HP-thinking Minutes: 69

HG glares: 3

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 16

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 63 to 1.

**Day Two of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, January 18****th**

**In bed**

**4:05 AM**

**4:05 a.m. – **Am wondering how such inappropriate Lustification came to be. There were no _warning signs _of future lustability the last time I was here—there was no "I may soon become disturbingly desirable" tattoo on a certain heroic wizard's forehead! Were only minor hints of such Lustification at Triwizard Cup! Am now wondering why did not just kiss Harry on lips rather than cheek. _Merde! _

Of course, must remember that now am v. fat; the famous, desirable, and talented beyond belief Potter shall never be interested in me. Barely noticed presence today in class, even though Snape seemed to find my sweater quite interesting, the dirty _salaud_. Was instead too busy perfecting potion; Potions Master gave him a D anyway. Was outraged, but afraid to say so. Do the teachers at such a top institution always display such blatant favoritism / hatred?

Should I take assistant job for Monsieur Snape to protect Harry from injustice??? Even though Monsieur Snape gives as many winks as pale, blonde-haired oddity Draco Malfoy? V. conflicted and unsure. Current trashy book cannot hold my attention—keep thinking of Halcius Pottotius, medieval wizarding champion, as HP! (Stop being a skank in your mind.) Am distracted and up v. late, but have had no caffeine all day (v. good, horridly painful). Have already taken away 69 calories for each minute spent desiring HP. Must STOP.

**4:45 a.m.** – Have received post from Late-Night Owl—am not sure who could be. I am unused to being accosted by strange owls in the middle of the night, especially since all of four people ever send me letters, mostly relatives. Am opening letter. Owl looks very unfamiliar.

**4:48** a.m. – Have opened letter; am surprised _mais_ _vraiment __content_. _La lettre est de mon amoureux secret, _Michael. Am now pleasantly surprised to realize that my cyber-boyfriend is a wizard after all (not merely delusional) even if he does happen to be an American one. Almost comfortingly, letter is filled with American spellings and no Oxford commas. After having read _Eats, Shoots and Leaves,_ am obsessive over Oxford commas.

Michael's letter has come with picture (smart boy), which I shall look at now—

_O—Mon dieu!_Is single most gorgeous creature ever? Or is Harry? (Do. Not. Answer. That.) Looks like Prince William only better looking somehow, probably because less awful family stuff to deal with. Has sex appeal of Johnny Depp, but pure hotness of the darling Orlando Bloom. Yes, we want him badly. Yes! He is ours! (Perhaps too much royal "we," considering have just rejected Prince William.)

We—I also wonder how address procured. Found out IP address from emails? Floo'd home? Squeezed out of _ma soeur sans valeur _that will be staying at Hogwarts? Sent lovely romantic note?

Maybe my sister did actually do something right. Maybe I'll take the "_sans valeur"_ out of her name.

Then again, why should I? She's still a tart.

Perhaps Michael just has a very persistent owl…

_Zut alors!_

Such a paper-cut; will not risk bleeding on face of my new favorite person. Must find bandage.

**5:30 a.m.** – Bandage found, cut healed, and picture salvaged. Am decidedly madly in love with said "Michael" whose last name I know not (why should last names matter—this is true love)! Am v. excited that American cyber-boyfriend is undeniably _attrayant_, but depressed that shall have to dump in case of re-Americanization. Will die if cannot see in person.

AAC:

Name: Fleur Delacour.

Height: five foot seven.

Weight: x + 1.5 (equals fat Fleur)

Hair: Blonde (still; should not dye? New job, new state of free independence, perhaps calls for new hair color?)

Eyes: Blue (Parents took away colored contacts! Can no longer experiment with shockingly colored irises! _Whither my creative outlets? _If I try a charm, I know my eyes will never turn back, will be blinded, etc. Sticking glass into my eye feels so much safer.)

Lust Situation: Shifting (Has now shifted to ACB)

Cyber-boyfriend: See above.

Favorite Class SF: Still Flitwick for same reasons.

Least SF: Has become History of Magic. Cannot help but fall asleep and awake only because the little Malfoy boy whispers obscenities in my ear. Causes nightmares. Malfoy, not class.

Pilates Minutes: 16 (progress!)

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 24

Jude-thinking Minutes: 22

HP-thinking Minutes: 94

HG glares: 10

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 27

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 1

**6:15 a.m.** – Am eating breakfast and watching weight like mad, crazy anorexic sister Renée. And while I watch weight, am noticing Professor Greasy-Hair watching me. **NTS** – Eat _less_.

Breakfast: secretly stashed Nutri-Grain bar. _Yummmm_… cappuccino-flavored. Artificially flavored glass of pure diet-y-licious-ness.

Calories: approx. 280.

**6:17 a.m.** – All right, that Hermione Granger is completely disturbing the peace over here. I cannot even enjoy my desperate substitute for coffee without such evil glare-ness. Grrr…

**NTS** – Hire assassin/dietician/Pilates instructor.

**6:19 a.m. **– Now realize that it bothers me v. much that lucky Hermione Granger gets to sit with Harry all day long in all his yummy underage-ness, eating breakfast with him, taking classes with him... _Alors!_ Such Perversion! _Arrêtez! _

**6:23 a.m.** – Am now seething as I watch lucky Her-Sliminess Granger laughing at some brilliant, sexy joke Harry must have just told. (Emily Blunt from _The Devil Wears Prada _appears on my left shoulder, screaming: "She doesn't _deserve him, _she eats _carbs _for God's sake!" If I were more morally balanced, surely someone would appear on my right shoulder too.) Have heard through Secret Staff Grapevine that equally brilliant (but not nearly as sexy) Granger is dating unsightly red-haired, freckled child. If so, why does she glare at me so? She cannot possibly think I am after aforesaid freckled child!

Harry's leaving—_alors!_ Have now just discovered Harry's _derrière_… must away…

**6:30 a.m. **– What were you thinking, Fleur?! That was v. perverse. Never look at said _derrière _ever again, unless it is your dying moment. And you want to die happy, of course.

**8: 14 a.m.** – Am currently enjoying the company of stand-in DADA teacher, Remus Lupin. As _actual_ DADA teacher was caught up in a bit of official dark-arts-fighting business and will not be here until Feb., Prof. RJL is standing in. Is v. nice and v. fair to Harry, and now has beaten out Professor Flitwick for Best Class Ever.

**8: 20 a.m.** – Am realizing that Harry must be Best DADA Student Ever. Think of his experience! Am imagining Harry bravely fighting the Dark Lord; am skipping times 1 through 4 because of the perverse way underage-ness of this thought. Am instead imagining the 4th year fight, _parce que __je me souviens_ how he was then. Am trying not to OD on such complete hotness of his bravery, fall out of chair, faint or similar.

"There are several curses…"

_Go, Harry, go!_

"…that will disable your opponent…"

_Alors! How on earth did he get so divine…?_

"…long enough for you to get to your feet…"

_And so brilliant…_

"Can anyone name these curses? Anyone?"

_And so…_

"Fleur, would you kindly tell the class the answer?"

_Soooo sexy._

"Erm, _no_, that's _not _the answer," says Professor Lupin, turning an interesting shade of magenta and loosening his tie in discomfort.

OH SHITAKE MUSHROOMS ON A PLATE FULL OF _MERDE_.

_Did I just say that out loud?_

**9:37 a.m. **– Am mortified. Cannot speak.

**10:25 a.m.** – Have not eaten single bite for sheer mortification of event. It's like in _Mean Girls _when Cady wasn't paying attention, and Mrs. Norbury asked a question, but she was too busy staring at Aaron Samuels, and then she was like "so cute," but then "soooo sexy" is SO MUCH WORSE THAN "SO CUTE!" So cute could be "That sticker on that binder is so cute!" So sexy can mean one thing and one thing alone—Harry Potter! _Pour l'amour de Dieu!_

I must go die now.

**12 NOON** – I am shamed! _Je voudrais mourir!_ It seems that whenever I walk down the hall I am plagued by whispers. "Did you hear about Fleur Delacour in Seamus's DADA class?" a student asks, his voice laced with the details of my nymphomania. "No, tell me!"

_Les Feux d'Enfer!_

FIRES OF HELL!!!!!

**6:47 a.m.** – Am too distraught to write any longer. Will break vow of silence tomorrow. Hate this frigging job.


	2. Further January

**Further January: **Awful Starts and Vicious Tarts  
**

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**Day Three of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, January 19****th**

**At breakfast**

**6:30 AM**

**6:30 a.m**. – Have just now realized that not only am I commonly and constantly ridiculed, but I am absolutely friendless. Wish could find sweet Weasley tutor-boy (from like, three years ago) who taught me to speak English better to help, but could not risk asking freckled younger sibling, friend of Harry Potter. Would die of shame as said younger freckled sibling laughed and walked away. Instead must suffer silently, like a monk or a martyr.

**6:45 a.m.** – Have decided that talk _must_ be had with Professor Lupin. P-haps am not meant to be in classes with Harry; would only distract me! Besides this point, must be good assistant in order to maintain job and keep parents from criticizing _moi_.

**7:00 a.m.** – Should take assistant job w/ Snape? Will be too intimidated by such severe creepiness that will never say "so sexy" again? _Peut-être_. Worth considering.

**7:15 a.m.** – Have decided must take job as assistant to… damn, what _is_ his name? Further damn! 15 calories off for using American curse—wait, that's thirty—I've used it twice. DAMN!!

**7:30 a.m.** – Must get used to concept of Snape as coworker. Must become… "Happy" about it. I'm sure there are perfectly good reasons why Snape would make a fantastic… professor.

**The Perks of Working with Professor Snape**

1) If there are five minutes left in the universe and I need someone to look down my shirt before the world explodes, I can always count on Professor Snape.

2) If there are five minutes left in the universe and I need someone to look up my skirt before the world explodes, we both know who we can count on.

3) If there are five minutes left in the universe and I need someone to defuse a ticking time-bomb on my chest—well then Professor Snape's just great to have around then, isn't he?

I hope Harry appreciates the sacrifices I am making for him… OH, RIGHT—HE DOESN'T KNOW. Why is this worth it again—_Alors! _Reason is in line of vision… must away…

**8: 29 a.m. **– Am now in hallway missing bits and pieces of History of Magic talking with Prof. Lupin… probably should put Food Journal/Pilates Journal/Love Journal/Personal Diary/Rant List away…

**10:41 a.m. – **HAD V. LONG TALK WITH LUPIN. Just thought that should be in all caps since was v. important. Conversation went much like this:

Lupin: *Completely _inutile_ small talk*

Fleur: *Completely _inutile_ small talk*

Lupin: Fleur—_er_, Ms. Delacour—I'm concerned about something.

Fleur: _Quest-que c'est?_

Fleur thinks: "STOP USING FRENCH YOU FAT, PERVERTED IDIOT."

Fleur then thinks: "You must not be so hard on yourself—you're not an idiot…"

Lupin: Excuse me?

Fleur: What are you concerned about?

Lupin: Well, as we both know, F—Mr. Delacour, teacher-teacher relationships, while not prohibited are frowned upon in this school.

Fleur thinks: "What are you _talking _about, you mad old— _OHHHHHHHH_."

Fleur: OH. Well… uh… OKAY. (Aren't I dazzlingly _articulée_?)

Lupin (in lower voice): I can't be with you, Fleur.

Fleur thinks: "Yeah… because you're like, _what_, TWENTY years older than me… and that would be like, _what_, THIRTY laws being broken… and you could spend like, _what_ FORTY years in prison for CHILD MOLESTING!"

Fleur: Oh, Professor Lupin, I didn't mean to give you wrong impression the other day, but I'm not attracted to you. I'm just really into the vivid fantasy thing.

Lupin, looking suspicious: And _who_, may I ask, were you vividly fantasizing about?

Fleur thinks: UM, UM, UM, UM…

Fleur: Orlando Bloom from _Pirates of the Caribbean_. You wouldn't know him because he, unlike you, lives in the Muggle world, and he, unlike you, is an actor, and he, unlike you, is who I was fantasizing about. So if you'll excuse me, I have to get to some insufferably boring class now, so you see why I have to hurry. BYE!

I cannot wait for the new DADA teacher to arrive—I do not wish to have to relive such moments over and over and over again every time I step into that classroom. And besides, Harry's so _good_ at Defense Against the Dark Arts! I don't want the chance to see such sexiness at work _ruined!_

**12 NOON** – Am sitting outside now, during lunch, staring at snow. Am v. cold _mais_ I will survive—without breaking into random dancing and singing. _Peut-être _Ishould console myself by staring at adorable picture of gorgeous creature of light, my (cyber) boyfriend.

**12:30** **p.m.** – Got in good long hour of staring at GCoL. And yes, he's still gorgeous. Am still bummed over the question: What to do? I am still v. down in the dumps over a more pressing situation: am currently friendless!

**NTS** – acquire female friend with which to obsess over various things, such as:

* Harry Potter and his sheer fabulousity.

* Michael-the-Cyber-Boyfriend and whether or not his fabulousity is nearly as amazing as the fabulousity of the aforesaid Harry Potter.

* Which class to actually _choose_!

*Professor Greasy—no, that's _Snape_, and his utter disgustingness.

* Prof. Flit and his niceness yet supreme oldness.

* Such Lustifications.

* All the weight I need to lose _now_.

* Why on earth Halcius Pottotius, medieval wizarding champion, chose Harmonia Granker to be his fair lady instead of much more pleasant Flora Delicatessen!

* How to be a good little assistant and _not_ call your students sexy.

* What to do when you call your students sexy.

HOLY SHISA IN A BUCKET! Have just discovered Harry—dear lord—he's wearing LEATHER! Clearly a ploy to intoxicate me with desire / some stupid and or awesome Quidditch psyche. It's like yummy-ness multiplied by sexiness multiplied by—oh, that slimy Herm-own-ninny leech is next to him.

If I yak, do I get diet points?

**1:45 p.m.** – Am sorely missing my iPod. Wish to God that I could have the "My Faves" playlist back. Would be rocking to "Mr. Brightside" right now.

_Jealousy, turning saints into the sea…_

You know, when I was young, mostly French, and totally uneducated, I used to think they were saying: "Jealousy, turning sex into disease." But now I am 19, and—

_I AM SIXTEEN GOING ON SEVENTEEN—__SEVENTEEN MAGAZINE!_

Sorry, had little American spaz-out there.

**2:23 p.m.** – Is much awkwardness between Monsieur Lupin _et moi. _Am beginning to think have offended him by not being sexually attracted to him…

**2:26 p.m.** – But it's totally not my fault that I'm not sexually attracted to him! God, you'd think guys would be more accepting of the fact that NOT EVERYONE wants to lie down and bear their children!

**2:31 p.m.** – I mean, he's a perfectly nice guy. And if the world as we knew it ended right now due to global warming or George Bush being president of the USA or something and the human race was completely wiped out except for a few people and I needed to procreate with someone to maintain the existence of humanity and I had a choice between the only men in the world: Snape and Lupin, I'd totally bear Professor Lupin's children. But, seriously, if Harry or Michael or Orlando Bloom were out there I'd bail on him.

And have wild, mad sex with Orlando Bloom.

**2: 37 p.m.** – Or maybe Harry.

**2: 46 p.m. **– No, definitely Orlando.

**2:51 p.m.** – But MICHAEL!

**3:02 p.m.** – Oooh—Harry just walked by in his Quidditch robes. It's so Harry. ("It's so Harry" is the new hip slang phrase I have just invented, meaning "It makes me want to strip all my clothes off and throw myself at something.")

**5:57 p.m.** – Watched _POC _again. Just realized is one of dumb movies where Orlando Bloom does not take off his shirt nearly enough to satisfy me. Where is the internet when you need it?

**8:23 p.m.** – Have found interesting room that was not there yesterday or the day before that. Hmmm… interestingly is only room that has the ability to show me _POC_. May not be as good as DVD original, _mais _it is good enough, and seems rather holographic. Before was reduced to casting the Inform Me spells Renée used to pass every History exam there ever was. Seeing the live action battles pop out of Chapter Thirteen does tend to make things a go faster.

Oh the joy of _Informare!_

**9:01** **p.m.** – Should sleep? Can't. Must. Will.

**10:34 p.m.** – I lied.

**12 MIDNIGHT – **I lie quite a bit, I'm afraid.

**12: 30 AM** – I am so seriously going to go to slee…

**Day Four of Free Independence**

**Thursday, January 20****th**

**In Transfiguration**

**7:45 AM**

**7:45 a.m.** – Am v. sleepy and v. unwilling to admit this is completely my fault. Will instead wallow in den…

**WAKE UP, FLEUR**.

As I was saying: I will instead wallow in denial.

I am very upset that no one in this blasted castle drinks coffee. What kind of stupid castle doesn't have any f—doesn't have any coffee? (Close one there, Fleur!) I'm too sleepy to cast an energizing spell on myself right now. Am very much in Transfiguration _maintenant_, which is proving to be an O. K. class. Harry is not nearly as excellent in_ cette_ _classe_ as he is in all his others, _mais_ I do get to stare at him when he has his sweet confused look on.

**8:11 a.m.** – Am still in Trans. Have managed v. well to stay awake. Seems as if pale, blonde-haired oddity is everywhere—_Draco_. See? I have learned his name.

**8:20** **a.m. **– Am feeling more fat than usual. I hate skinny people.

**8:25 a.m.** – No, seriously. Skinny people should be put to death.

**8:29** **a.m.** – I really love his hair. _Harry's_ hair. I mean, it's so "Yeah, I rolled out of bed this morning, because this class means so little to me; what means something to me is the fate of the world, and though I've saved it like a bazillion times, I still have to drop in to make sure it's all right. Oh gee, pondering the fate of the world makes me all sweaty. I think I'll take my shirt off." And you know: hair that says that much is _trop beau_.

**9:13 a.m.** – I'm beginning to feel sleepy again. It's HOM, and that always makes me sleepy. I'm sure Professor Binns is an excellent teacher, but…

**9:24** **a.m.** – Whoosh! Had a little nap there! Mr. Binns, extraordinarily, just turned around and asked me if I would like to sit in the back of the room in order to see the maps of overtaken giant territory better. I didn't think he moved at all; is v. extraordinary to see.

I shall go forth and sit in the back of the room, next to one of the students. Maybe the movement will wake me up.

**10:32** **a.m. **– I can't stop embarrassing myself! I fell asleep again, but this time it was _plus, plus mauvais!_ Do you want to know what happened? Do you even want to know??? I fell asleep on Neville Longbottom's shoulder. And I was there for twenty minutes. I woke up to snickers and "Hey, Neville, can I change seats with you?" That was Draco Malfoy, of course.

Professor Binns, of course, didn't even seem to notice. After class, I saw Her-Sliminess say something to Harry, and then Harry looked at me and then looked back at her and kept walking. In all teen movies of the American sort this means she said something about me. _What did she say about me?_ Shall die of curiosity.

**11:05** **a.m. **– Oh dear much—I have to sit in on Potions now. I haven't told anyone which class I'm sticking with yet. I'm so v. fickle, but have accepted such in early steps of general self-acceptnace, etc.

**11:15** **a.m. **– Prof. Snappy-Snape-Snifflekins (I had to say it, I'm sorry,) is being extra-slimy today. He was v. much:

"_Hello_… Fleur… it is very… _nice_… to… _see you_."

Of course what this sounded like was: "Hello, my future sex kitten, it is wildly stimulating to check you out." Which explains all those pauses.

I swear to G, if Snape's hair weren't so greasy, I'd think Draco Malfoy was his son.

_GASP_.

**12 NOON** – Am still without friends! Why am I so _impopulaire _here? I don't feel like wallowing much now though; have decided that should just be glad am surviving. After all, have not had Diet Coke in 4 days. I had stuffed 14 cans into my suitcase, but all of them went flat the instant I unpacked.

80 galleons it was the castle's fault.

Damn magic.

**3:05 p.m.** – I have placed Michael's picture on nightstand. Is laughing, but not hysterically laughing in a fake way, _mais_ is sweet good-natured laughing, as if he is laughing at _une blague_ _très intelligente. _He has such a beautiful smile! I have such good cyber-taste.

Oh my: I am a crazy fan girl, aren't I? Honestly, it isn't as bad a case of Crazy Fan-Girlishness as the kind I harbor for Harry, _mais_ it is pretty Fan-Girlish. _Mon dieu_, Fleur—this kind of behavior must stop.

**3:15 p.m.** – Spent last ten minutes going through this book. Have used Harry's name 30 times in just 4 days—that's an average use of 7.5 times per day. I am becoming a crazed fan-girl!

It's almost like becoming my sister, except I don't think I'm a vicious _tarte_.

Yet.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

(Covers eyes and hides under bed).

**Day Five of Free Independence**

**Friday, January 21****st**

**At breakfast (again)**

**6:36 AM**

**6:36** **a.m. **– I am vowing not to look at Harry. It's too dangerous. What if, by looking at him, I am slowly becoming filled _avec_ crazy fan-girlishness? I have it on good authority that Harry _hates_ fan-girls! And besides that, the instant I am a fan girl, the closer I am to becoming my sister, which is WORSE than becoming a vicious _tarte_—it's the same thing—BUT MORE.

The Stressful Job of Being Both a

Vicious _Tarte_ and My Sister

By Fleur Delacour

1) Aforesaid VT must spend gross amounts of time being vicious (no, duh) to her siblings.

2) VT must spend oodles of time checking to make sure that skirt is hiked up proper amount and also that shirt is properly unbuttoned.

3) VT must remember to always, always break promises and do the nasty with any: boyfriends, future boyfriends, brothers, cousins, best friends, teachers, uncles, fathers, and some pets.

4) VT must steal one's stuff, borrow without asking, and return with germs, tire tracks, or scorch marks.

5) VT must spend much time _not_ eating, which takes up so much time that she _almost_ doesn't have time to insult you.

6) VT must spend the due amount of time: fixing hair, plucking eyebrows, ruining your razor with her hairy legs, weighing herself, making you feel fat, and inflating her push-up bra.

7) VT must also, without fail, always mention your bad habits to your parents and toast your failures at dinner parties, _à la_ "Dan" from _One Tree Hill_.

8) VT must constantly make fun of _One Tree Hill_.

9) VT must hack into your email, open your snail mail, maim your owls, and find your secret notes.

10) Above all, VT must do whatever she can to get whatever she wants, and do whoever she has to in the process.

Isn't my sister a real… _peach?_

**7:45 a.m. **– During Care of Magical Creatures, while I was staring with rapt attention at a demiguise, wondering how many seconds it was until it disappeared again, Poussière, my ever-faithful owl, nearly pecked me to death. I was horrified to see what she had tied to her leg—clearly my sister's stationery.

I swear _à Mon Dieu _that she has frickafracking _eyes_ in the back of her head! Why else would she owl me, _right after I was thinking about her?_ I tell you, my sister is a force to be reckoned with.

Of course, I knew this was her stationery, because you can smell the skasty (skanky plus nasty) perfume she sprays all over it from six miles away. It reads:

_My dearest sister, Fleur,_

_How are things at Hogwash? I was shocked to learn that Mummy and Daddy made you go back to that dreadful place, but then again, Fleur, you _know_ how you are with money—I suppose they figured they just couldn't trust you with it anymore. America must have taken you over. And, well, honestly, Fleur, you can't think that none of us knew about your American cyber-boyfriend, because we _ALL_ knew, Fleur. All of us, even Gabrielle, and she never absorbs _anything. _So you can't have hoped to hide it from us. _

_Miss you terribly—your room looks so odd without you in it. It completely freaked me out having to walk through it once a month (that's right, Mummy and Daddy _still_ make me visit them once a month, though I'm begging for just birthdays, funerals, and Christmas) and see you not there. So I had it renovated—that dumb wall-paper, we tore it down and painted your walls jet black, and tossed those icky books of yours about calligraphy and crap like that—excuse my English!—and then we added, get this, a canopy bed! So I've moved in there in all—it's great, but it still smells like that perfume you used to wear in 6__th__ year!!! I know—it's hilarious, right???!!! I've tried everything, but I can't get that nasty stench off! I can't believe you went around _smelling_ like that Fleur—I'm so embarrassed for you. No wonder I used to pretend we weren't related._

_Oh, pfft, Gabby wants to say hello to you, so there. God, she's still so __dumb__-looking—didn't you think she was dumb-looking?—you should have warned me. I came back here and I was like, "WHOAH, when did my sis get so _dumb-looking???" _All sort of confused and… slow-looking. __Seriously, it's awkward and embarrassing, how did you ever go out in public beside her? I mean, I know she makes you look better or smarter or whatever—and, well, that's what counts for you, but still… I'd die. You're clearly a stronger person than I am._

_Oh, and some guy named Jacques floo'd us the day after you left. He's like in __love__ with you! I mean, it's so sad: he's like in love with you! It's hilarious, right??!! He was like asking how you were and crap and asking me to tell you he floo'd and that he's sorry for some crap and I was like, "This is so sad, some guy is like in love with __Fleur__!" Like Mummy says, there's no accounting for taste._

_But, no offense, Fleur, but the fact that you let guys just randomly have your address so they can floo you, is like __really__ slutty. I mean, I know you can't help it and all, but still: you shouldn't go around being slutty like that! I mean, you're my sister and all, but I'd __die__ if I had a really slutty sister._

_All my love plus more,_

_Renée_

Can you believe my sister? She used the word "I" 22 times in 27 sentences about… _er_… herself. It's at least a relief to know that some things never change—she's still trying to avoid seeing _les parents_ at all costs, and she's still taking my stuff. And she poses some really good questions—

I wonder what it's like to have a _really_ slutty sister?

**10:32 a.m. **– I wonder what could have possibly prompted my sister to even bother owling me. She hardly did any amount of the boasting she usually does—she didn't make any "ickle fickle flat-chested Fleur" comments. ("Oh, hee-hee, Fleur—remember what I used to call you back when you were in 4th year???") What is she up to?

**11:49 a.m. **– I know that I shall spend the rest of the day drowning in Random Reveries about my childhood, and all thanks to Renée. Even in another _country_ she's ruining things! _Elle est impossible!_

**12:15 p.m.** – Honestly, I don't know how I'm going to continue through the rest of the day with that letter in my pocket (where else was I to put it during Care of Magical Creatures?), burning a hole through my robes. Ugh, I must smell like skank. _Les Feux d'Enfer! _

**2:06 p.m.** – I'm not even going to bother with the mundane occurrences in my mundane classes. I won't tell you what outfit Harry was wearing today. I'm not going to tell you about Professor Snape's odd innuendo of the day. I'm not even going to tell you the obscenities of Draco Malfoy, uttered during History of Magic. I'm going to comfort myself by stuffing my face and thinking about Orlando Bloom!

**4:55 p.m. **– I think I'll go to sleep very early today (I've been un-caffeinated for 5 days—yay team!). Yawn, yawn, yawn, waking up at six o'clock every day is breaking down my nervous system, and if I don't sleep soon, I'll die. DIE.

AAC:

Name: Fleur Delacour (if you don't know this, you're slower than the growth of Draco Malfoy's mustache).

Height: five foot seven.

Weight: x + 1 (that's a ½ pound lost!)

Hair: Blonde (but Renée's is blonder)

Eyes: Blue (but Renée's are bluer)

Lust Situation: DO YOU THINK I HAVE TIME TO LUST AMIDST MY TURMOIL???

Cyber-boyfriend: Still hot; still American; still trapped!

Favorite Class SF: When will this _not_ be Charms?

Least SF: Is now Divination—there never was a more pointless class. Harry's not even doing it.

Pilates Minutes: 0.5 if yoga-breathing counts.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 149 (I WAS SAD.)

Jude-thinking Minutes: 105 (Hello! I was sad!!!)

HP-thinking Minutes: 118 (Stop judging me!)

HG glares: 17

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 37

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 10 (still lusting after Harry in the lustiest way possible, but am beginning to fall in love with Michael's soul… Can't wait to _actually_ meet him. With my luck, his soul will suck.)

Philosophical Question of Day: Can souls suck?

**Day Six of Free Independence**

**Saturday, January 22****nd**

**Sitting in the snow**

**4:56 AM**

**4:56 AM** – It is so too early to be sitting outside, on the ground. Of course, I left my Rules of Fleur Handbook in my room, so I couldn't check the notes and exceptions on Section 73-B: Being Outside at Ungodly Hours in Ungodly Weather.

It's a Saturday. I have been waiting for a Saturday for a million and a half years. Excuse me.

**5:14 a.m. – **I'm sorry, but it was absolutely necessary that I frolic aimlessly in the snow. Now that I have done that, I may return to whatever it was I was doing—I was—

**5:20** **a.m. **– Poussière has gone stark raving mad! And she's got another letter. It doesn't reek of skank ho, so it's not my sister, but who on earth could it be?

Appears to be Jacques, latest English tutor and longtime friend—am pasting letter here:

_Dear Fleur,_

_Did you survive America and come out in one piece? I gathered from your sister that you had a delightful time, and I had the hardest time finding you, but your __soeur sans__—but Renée, I mean, finally told me you were at Hogwarts. Sorry I didn't owl you sooner—but Hogwarts!—more English! If you ever need help, feel free to Floo me. I'm still at the same old place in Lyons. _

_I missed you, Fleur._

_Plus d'amour,_

_Jacques_

Jacques is the ultra-best English tutor ever. No seriously, I _adore_ him. He's 19, fluent in like 16 languages, and _adorable! _Sure, it's kind of odd that Gabrielle's kind of obsessed with him, but that's okay. If I didn't have such abnormally high standards that only include ridiculously sexy movie stars, Harry Potter, and American web surfers, then I'd probably be obsessed with him too. Which would suck because I'd spend 14 hours a week telepathically yelling at him to take his shirt off.

Which I don't, because I have abnormally high standards which only include ridiculously sexy movie stars, Harry Potter, and American web surfers—not that Gabrielle has low standards. And she's not "dumb-looking" either. My sister is the craziest bird—I have no frickafracking clue where on earth she got the impression that Gabrielle is "dumb-looking."

Ah well, my sister is an idiot with _no_ standards, so what's the point in even discussing _her?_

Cha! That's what I thought!

**6:57 a.m. **– Am eating breakfast. And of course this means I get to tell you what:

- Toast (with butter—don't kill me!)

- Hot chocolate

- Another one of those forbidden Nutri-grain bars—sweet fruity-licious salvation!

- More liquid diet-y-liciousness.

**8:34** **a.m. **– You cannot know such boredom as I know now. It is death to be this bored. I'm not quite sure what I'm learning, and I don't know if Professor Trelawney is quite sure what she's teaching. Everyone in the class seems to either be asleep or fascinated, but the only people fascinated are Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown.

I've nothing to do; I'll make a list.

The 9 Hottest Names Ever

(And Draco is not one of them!)

_By Fleur Delacour_

1) _Harry_—no duh, did you think I _wouldn't _put his name here? At number one? Well, if you did you're dumber than the "Slow Children at Play" sign I saw on the way to King's Cross. Have the London officials never read _Eats, Shoots and Leaves?_ Do they not know the importance of commas? Do they not see how some children wouldn't _like_ being called SLOW? I shall write them a very long and impassioned letter about… anyhoo, back to the list.

_2) Michael._ I'm sure in some cases there will be a squicky Michael who disgusts one. But overall, it's a very hot name. Michael—Michael as in Michael Vartan who plays "Michael Vaughn" on _Alias_ and is so hot that all his clothes are in severe danger of melting off at any time, which I have no problem with whatsoever. Michael as in Michael _qui n'a pas de _last name! Yah, whatever. The hotness lives on.

3) _Dean_. I know you think I'm talking about that random Dean Blah-Blah who actually exists in the realm of Hogwarts, but I'm not. Really. I don't think he's impossibly hot or something. REALLY! I can feel you not believing me and it _hurts_. Actually, you _sick_ nonbelievers, I was referring to that impossible hotness that is Dean from _Gilmore Girls_. He knows he's hot. He tempts me with his hotness. He knows I like it—he thinks it's funny. It's so sick and sadistic the way he's constantly playing with my desire. Yeah, I love him anyway.

4) _Henry_. Don't go telling me that Henry is just Harry, because it's not. I've never seen how you get Harry from Henry, but Henry is such a good name. You know, there are names that are good names and there are names that are bad names. I mean, think about it this way: for a name to be a hot name, it has to be a good whispering name, a good talking name, and a good screaming name. A _really good screaming name_.

5) _Will_. I mean, come on, it's a very hot name. Whisper it: Will… Say it: Will… Don't scream it just yet. It rolls off the tongue _and_ it reminds me of Orlando Bloom in tight leather pants! Also, there is "Will Tippin" from "Alias," who—while not nearly as hot as his costar, Michael Vartan—is no slouch either. Will—you love it, don't deny it.

6) _Leo_. It's such a wonderful name don't you think? Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo. Maybe I'm only obsessed with this name because I spent about a month watching old episodes of "All My Children" on SoapNet. And besides, Josh Duhamel is _hot_.

7) _Jonathan. _I'm getting very sick of having to actually explain the hotness of these names; should such hotness be obvious? If you don't see the sheer hotness of this name, then you… shouldn't be reading this right now. Who are you? Are you my sister? Are you using the third eye you think _nobody_ knows about to spy on me? If you are… well… DON'T!

8) _Jack_. This is the perfect example of a triple-threat—you can say it, you can whisper it, _and_ you can scream it. Good screaming names are increasingly hard to find these days. If you've ever watched _Titanic_ then you can see what a great screaming name this is.

9) _Mark_; it's simple and sexy. OK, I just have a thing for monosyllabic names.

Oh, no; I don't want to come around and pick up tea leaves! I hate Professor Trelawney from the depths of my soul! May she never have a boyfriend named Michael _or_ Harry!

**9:21** **a.m. **– You cannot know my boredom. Wait, have I told you that already? Oh: "You cannot know such boredom as I know now." Well, you couldn't then and you still can't now—I'm bored out of my mind.

What kind of _très fou _monstrosity made me have Divination and History of Magic back-to-back?

**10:57 a.m. **– Another letter in Care of Magical Creatures! Of course, this one reeks of skank ho, so I can already tell it's my sister. I just can't see the owl yet.

**11:43** **a.m. **– Well, the good news: it wasn't Renée—it was Gabrielle, who was just borrowing the stationery. The bad news: now I have 2 letters that reek of _tarte!_

I'm not even going to read it, for touching it may spread the diseased perfume farther.

**12:12** **p.m.** – I had to read it; I couldn't contain my curiosity. Here's what it said:

_Dear Fleur,_

_I have missed you greatly since you left for Hogwarts! This must be a very short letter, but I wished to warn you that_

Well, that's interesting. The entire lower half of the letter is covered in black ink, making it completely illegible. Hm, wonder what _that_ could mean.

**2:45 p.m. – **Today has been so excruciatingly long and tedious. Wish to die v. much, but must wait until after _Pirates of the Caribbean 2_ comes out.

**4:45 p.m.** –

AAC:

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: five foot seven.

Weight: x (Ok, now I'm back to my normal state of fatness)

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Lust Situation: Well, you see… OK, fine. I lusted a bunch today—happy?

Cyber-boyfriend: I want him so badly it hurts!

Favorite Class SF: I'm not even going to tell you this time—you know!

Least SF: Snape? Lupin? (Still not having sex with him!) Trelawney? I have no freaking clue, don't _ask_ me that!

Pilates Minutes: um… I did a bunch of stomach sucking? Does that count?

Orlie-thinking Minutes: Cha, I love him—203

Jude-thinking Minutes: 140 (getting less hot, distance is making the heart grow more distracted by nearer Brits)

HP-thinking Minutes: 167 (I don't see enough of him at all!)

HG glares: 23 (she hates me!)

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 60 (he lusts me!)

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 73 to 5

Philosophical Question of Day: If your sister can see you at all times—does that mean you can always see your sister?

God, I hope not.

* * *

**A/N: **Coming soon to theatres near you- February: Slut for Authority.

Loveyamuch,

FT


	3. February: Slut for Authority

**February: **Slut for Authority

* * *

**Day Sixteen of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, February 1****st**

**In the faculty bathroom, ripping my hair out**

**7:52 AM**

**7:52 a.m. – **Holy snow—it's the Ho from Bordeaux! _My sister is at Hogwarts._ Let me repeat that in case you didn't feel the full effect of that—MY SISTER IS AT HOGWARTS. SHE IS HERE!

I have this feeling you don't fully understand what I am saying, so I am going to say it one last time:

THE VICIOUS _TARTE_ I HATE SO VERY MUCH HAS INFILTRATED THE ONE PLACE I COULD POSSIBLY ESCAPE HER.

Do you _know_ what she is going to do? You are aware of what she'll _do_ the instant she finishes analyzing this situation and restocking on bile, aren't you? After she sheds her skin and slithers away to feed on her young? _She will try and take over my entire effing life. AGAIN._

I can still barely believe it: that skasty whore is back. THE BITCH IS BACK. I can't believe it. I just can't.

**8:23 a.m. **– God, how could you do this to me? I know I stopped believing in you a little bit 5th year, but _please_, that was just like a month, and I was good to you after that, right? Is it because I'm related to an adulterer and a prostitute? Is that it? Is it about the book I never returned to the library? Is that it? I swear, I would have returned it, but I couldn't find it—and then I found out how much I'd owe in library fees, and it's not like I had 112 galleons and 62 sickles just lying around waiting to be spent! (And if I did, I would spend it on shoes—or, um, donating to charity, or adopting puppies too—but certainly not on boring research book on ogres, snooze.) Why do you hate me? Is it because I cheated just that little bit on Lent one year, because a sprinkle _is_ not an entire cupcake—it's not a sweet! I was _allowed_ to eat that, God, so you can't be mad at me about that!

Oh, God—is it because of this lust thing? Because I didn't mean it when I said "lust" the past nineteen times last week in reference to Harry Potter. I'm not in lust with him—that's just me being humorous—ha-ha!

Oh, I get it—you think I'm lying to you, is that it? Well, you know what, God? You can go sod your effing deity self.

**9:14 a.m. **– She showed up in the Great Hall—she just randomly showed up—I wasn't even paying attention. I was too busy looking at the Nutrition Facts on the back of my Nutri-grain bar and figuring out if it counted as protein to notice the telltale signs: flowers wilted, little children screamed, and somewhere out there an entire family of cutesy little bunnies suddenly died. That and thousands of male tongues spontaneously fell out of their mouths and rolled out onto the floor.

Renée may be a vicious _tarte_, but she's an unbearably attractive vicious _tarte_.

I finally registered that she was here when the final sign came: "_Bonjour, ma petite soeur."_ I turned around, and promptly spewed my Just Brewed Magical Diet Shake all over her, causing her to shrink back in a brief moment of disgust and absolutely everyone to turn around and suppress giggles. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"Is that anyway to greet your big sister?" she said in that warm, sweet, completely unnatural voice, which made her sound like she was in a stage production: _Fleur & Me—Bestest Buddies_.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE?" said I, still completely dumbfounded by her overwhelmingly skasty presence. "I thought you were going to stay in France, bother my parents, and destroy all of my possessions—why are you _here_?"

"To see _you_, of course," she smiled, that nasty, evil, "let the battle begin, because we both know I'll win" smile. She looked like a lion eyeing an antelope on _Animal Planet_.

I'm about to get eaten alive.

**10:32** **a.m. **– The prostitute that claims to be related to me has taken this entire effing school by storm. They're all so obsessed with her—blah, blah, blah, "Fleur's sister," blah, blah, blah, "so hot," blah, blah, blah, "so pretty," blah, blah, blah, "so effing thin!" It's some kind of mortal sin to wish death upon your sister, isn't it?

**11:14 a.m. **– On the way to DADA for another awkward encounter with Professor Lupin. Unfortunately, _ma soeur sans valeur_ simply won't give up trying to make nice and is following me trying to ask me how I'm feeling and how "umm… _healthy_" I look. Wow—she's been here four hours and she's already used code to call me fat. I'm trying to ignore her but she won't stop—

**12 NOON** – I HAVE A NEW FAVORITE CLASS. This is not possible, you say? Nothing could surpass Flitwick and his supreme oldness, you say? You are wrong, because one thing and one thing alone can surpass nice, old people! Let me say this slowly because I screwed up the effect of "my evil sibling has followed me across the globe."

It's Michael. The new and improved DADA teacher that we have been waiting for has arrived and it's Michael. Michael, my American cyber boyfriend!

And you think that's all?

_He's even hotter in person_.

You may now have your own little American spaz-out. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

I've got a _boyfriend_, and he's a _hottie_, his name is _Michael_, and _you can't have any! _Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

**1:04** **p.m. **– Now that I have recovered from that fit of evil yet hysterical laughter and the delighted convulsions that followed, I am able to think clearly with the aid of a _whole_ bunch of butterbeer. What?—Am I not allowed to celebrate too?

It's rather obvious that Renée thinks Michael is _just_ as _attrayant_ as I do. She gave him The Eye and in a very Snape-like voice said, "Hello… _Professor_." She's breaking records all over the place—I never expected her to break out the Desire Me Voice so soon in her visit. Of course, I had been too busy writing "I'm trying to ignore her" to pay any attention as I walked into the room (I have that horrible habit—not paying attention), and then, suddenly, I looked up from my book and _voila! C'est mon amoureux!_

"Michael?" This is just the typical thing that I do; in movies, people say such things to clarify that they know each other, I, however, do it because I'm never quite sure whether there really _is_ a cyber-boyfriend that I had named Michael, or if I made him up.

Then, as clichés go, Michael looks up from his book—"Fleur?"

Of course, what naturally follows is my sister swiveling her head all the way around, and going, "You _know_ each other?"

I smiled that acid smile she's always giving me. "Of course, Renée—this is the American cyber-boyfriend that absolutely _everyone_ knows about."

I swear to G her eyes went red. D'you think cyborgs can exist in the wizarding world without malfunctioning and spitting our sparks and such?

"You're French!" exclaimed my hot American no-longer cyber but _actual_ boyfriend. "It's so great to finally meet you!" Warm embrace follows which allows me to have huge moment of total reveling over his shoulder which most consisted of, "Wow, I can so feel his abs underneath his shirt, and they are rock hard."

And no, I don't have a one-track mind.

"So _this_ is DancesWithHouseElves67?" asked Renée in her own sneak-tastic way, arms crossed, tapping her Chanel Vamp nails on her arm, clearly plotting things.

I suddenly broke away from ab-tastic embrace: "I _knew_ you'd been reading my emails, you sneak-tastic ho!" Renée's jaw lowered to her Prada shoes and Michael laughed. God, he's so great when he laughs. It's like _better_ than a Nutri-grain bar—it's like better than, dare I say, _Diet Coke!_

Of course, Renée's silence didn't last incredibly long. "Why you self-satisfied, Americanized little [French curse word deleted for obscenity even though I use it all the time]."

I was incredibly offended and nobody else in the room had any idea what she'd just said. At this point I'd completely forgotten that there was a DADA class waiting to be taught watching my sister and I curse at each other.

I gasped—"You whore."

"Slut," she replied.

"Tramp."

"Vamp."

"Harlot."

"Fish out of water."

"Bat out of hell."

"Liberal."

"Conservative."

"You grotsky little biotch!"

GASP! "You… _Plastic!_"

By this time Professor Lupin, who was supposed to be setting things up for Michael (that's Professor Turner—_I know, it's fabulous, right?_), was staring in our direction in absolute horror—as was the rest of the class. Well, actually, it was only Lupin who was horrified—Michael was surprised yet vaguely amused—the girls were simply shocked—and the 7th year boys were waiting for us to take our tops off and engage in full out girl-on-girl warfare.

Boys are such sluts.

**2:00 p.m. **– Have just finished apologizing to Prof. Lupin and Prof. Turner for completely unprofessional and inappropriate conduct today in the classroom, for while the class was sufficiently entertained, they learned nothing except for several French curse words and all the fun signals I can make with my fingers. Professor Lupin said that I shouldn't be apologizing to him, but that I should be apologizing to "Professor Turner," because, after all, it was _his_ class I "disrupted." So I apologized to "Professor Turner," and probably only because I got to say "Professor Turner" a lot:

"Professor Turner, I just wanted you to know, how _sorry _I am about what happened this morning. I also want you to know—Professor Turner—that it will never happen again as soon as I get that restraining order filed. And, Professor Turner, I would also like to thank you for continuing to allow me the opportunity to sit in on your class and to become your assistant, if you please… Professor Turner."

_À mon dieu!—_you say it: Professor Turner… oh, you know you love it!

**5:45 p.m.** – I must write letters now, to my dear, dear Jacques and Gabrielle expressing my pure delight, inspired by spite. **NTS – **Will laugh wickedly later.

_Dear Jacques,_

_The most wonderful thing you could possibly imagine has just occurred. Well, it's not world peace or cold fusion or anything, but it is pretty darn good, in that it has caused much grievous harm to ma soeur sans valeur. Michael, my delightful American cyber-boyfriend is the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and he's even __more__ delicious in person. Of course, the skasty Renée realizes this, BUT HE'S MINE. Let me repeat that so that you, like everyone else in this world, can get the full effect: he's mine, he's mine, he's mine, he's mine, HE'S MINE._

_Ooh, if you mess with my man, I'm gonna be the one to bring it to ya, if you mess with my man, find your own, leave mine alone. Here's a little advice for you: find your own man…_

_Okay, Jacques—I've gone crazy, and I __know__ that's what you're thinking, but I cannot help it. I'm in love— I'm in love— I'm in love… accidentally in love…. I must confess, America has rotted my brain from the inside out—I am now a human jukebox._

_Thanks for your letter by the way. __J'adore que tu penses de moi. _

_Plus d'amour, mon petit chouchou,_

_Fleur_

_Cher Gabrielle,_

_If you were trying to tell me that THAT WH—that my sister, ahem, ahem—was coming to Hogwarts, then I got the message loud and clear. She's here, and she's already: a) calling me fat, b) looking prettier, skinnier, and more fabulous than me, and c) hitting on the DADA teacher. Of course, that doesn't matter because: _

_He's my American cyber-boyfriend Michael, and he's mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, all mine!_

_But I'm completely sane, so don't worry about my mental health. Please try and save my things from the sack of my room: Renée told me she'd moved in. Also: kiss Mum and Dad for me, tell Jacques I love him—but that I will never attempt to engage in any sexual activities with him and that he doesn't have to worry, and spray my room. I don't want it smelling like ska—like Renée—when I get home. _

_All the love in the entire universe plus more,_

_Fleur_

Now that I have finished penning letters to the two most beloved people in my life, I must now throw back my head and laugh. I will not subject you to the written version.

Who the hell am I kidding? Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

**7:32 p.m.** – I don't quite know if my sister will be here tomorrow—after all: where is she even staying? I'm sure there are guest dorms or something for visitors, but Dumbledore can't have been unwise enough to let her _sleep_ there, can he? I mean, there are all _sorts_ of heinous crimes that she could commit! She could steal my Cyber-boyfriend! Ahem, let me correct myself: _Actual_ boyfriend.

JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOY!

**Day Seventeen of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, February 2****nd**

**In "Mr. Turner's" Office, Feeling v. Purina**

**6:12 AM**

**6:12 a.m. – **Oooh, look who's up, dressed, well-fed, and ready to go _before_ six-thirty! Fleur is! I won't do my happy dance just yet.

I know you want to know where I am, so I'll tell you: I'm in Mr. Turner's office. _Yum_: "Mr. Turner's office." Just saying that makes me feel like I'm about to star in a Britney Spears video—Hit Me, Hogwarts, One More Time? Yes, I can see it: I (_à la_ Britney Spears) have been called into the principal's office. There are murmurs everywhere: "What could it be for?" I step into Mr. Turner's office and the door creaks shut behind me… And then all the guys take off their shirts and start dancing, while I hike up my skirt, transform Catholic girl chic into a bellybutton shirt and do my thing up on some unstable table.

I'm feeling like a certain kind of cat food right now, _très energique_! No, not_ Purina! _I'm feeling Frisky! Fine—I can feel Purina too.

**7:06** **a.m. **– I am enjoying a very entertaining DADA class. Unfortunately, so are all the other females in this room. "Parvati, are you paying attention?"

Oh, she's paying _attention_ all right—little mini-tramp. Don't even think about it, Little Patil. I will stomp all over you—I will crush you! _I can fail you in something!_ I can make sure that you never come back to this school—

Wow, Fleur needs to chill.

**10: 40 a.m. **– Fleur did not chill. Fleur completely heated up. And then Fleur stopped referring to herself in the third person.

You will not believe me when I tell you—you will not believe me at all. I am stalling telling you so that you can imagine up something fantastic, and will be so disappointed when I tell you what really happened that that heart attack you were going to have won't come true. Do you want to know? No, I should give you a few more minutes of imagining, just so you don't have convulsions.

Done?

Okay, just one minute more.

**10:42 a.m. **– Okay, have you created some imaginary fantasy scenario for me to be in? Am I the princess of Genovia? Have I gone and gotten my groove back? Okay, fine—I'll tell you:

I got kissed.

I GOT KISSED!!!

The drought is over!

Aren't you happy for me? You know you're happy for me. Why am I even asking you such a pointless question when I know that you're dizzy with happiness for me? Let me set this up for you.

_Excerpt from the critically acclaimed stage production: "Fleur Delacour Gets Monumentally Snogged" by Fleur Delacour, produced by Purina Productions._

Fleur enters stage left, looking for her favorite purple quill, which she believes has been left in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Room. She sees something shiny on the floor, so she goes to get a better look at it, as could be favorite quill. Aforesaid shiny object rolls under desk. Fleur gets down on her knees and tries to stick her head under the desk. It does not work incredibly well, so she goes to the other side of the desk to see if she can get at the shiny object then. She does this, and as she reaches for the shiny object, a door slams, and in her shock she rams her head into the top of the desk.

Enter Michael Turner, stage right.

Michael: Hello?

Fleur shrieks in pain and falls over very ungracefully, causing her to hit the wheel of the swivel chair behind her. More pain.

Michael: Fleur?

Fleur (with a touch of panic): Mr. Turner?

Michael: Good God, what have you been doing to yourself?

Fleur: I was looking for my quill… Mr. Turner.

Michael: Stop calling me that—are you all right?

Fleur: Ow.

Michael Turner has rushed downstage left to Fleur Delacour, and is looking at her as if to say, "You are the sort of girl who gets into lots of scrapes, _n'est-ce pas?"_ Fleur is feeling like crap and is still completely incapacitated on the swivel chair.

Michael: I'm taking you to the hospital wing.

Fleur: I don't need to go to the hospital wing.

Michael: Yes you do.

Fleur: No I don't.

Michael: Yes you do.

Fleur: No I—

Michael: As your boyfriend, I am taking you to the hospital wing, whether you like it or not.

Fleur looks at Michael in an amused but confused way. Boyfriend? While this word has been thought, it has not been said, and now that it has been said, what does it mean?

Fleur: Boyfriend?

Michael: You're not breaking up with me, are you?

Fleur: No.

Michael: Then I'm your boyfriend, aren't I?

Fleur: Yes, I think you are.

Michael: Then you're my girlfriend, aren't you?

Fleur: I think that's a logical conclusion.

Fleur Delacour has returned to a normal sitting position and very much likes where this is going.

Michael: Then I think, as your boyfriend, I'm entitled to take you to the hospital wing.

Fleur: No, I don't—

Fleur then ceases her useless chatter, because she is being monumentally snogged by the most ab-tastic DADA teacher there ever was. Such monumental snogging continues onward for some 184 seconds of sheer osculatory bliss.

Michael: Hospital wing, then?

Fleur: Mmm-hmm, sure.

Curtain.

**12 NOON** – Am obsessively thinking about this wondrous kiss. Have been walking around in a daze all day. Can't eat, can't think—I'm useless. It's like nothing can go—

**12:30 p.m.** – Since when is my sister still here?

**1:40 p.m.** – Didn't she run off and die somewhere? I swear, I thought she was gone. I bet her third eye saw me being happy and she decided that she had to stick around to squelch this happiness. I will not let her, however. I will instead be deliciously happy whenever I want to be.

**2:15 p.m.** – This is me being deliciously happy. It's yum-tastic, _n'est-ce pas_?

**4:03 p.m.** – Girls are falling all over themselves just looking at Michael, because he's ab-tastic and fantastic, but it does not matter, because I'm his "girlfriend" and he's my "boyfriend," and I get to kiss him whenever the hell I feel like it. Ain't life grand?

AAC:

Name: Fleur Delacour, Fleur Turner, Mrs. Michael Turner, Fleur Delacour-Turner…

Height: five foot seven.

Weight: x – 2 (Monumental kissing burns 6.5 calories per minute)

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Lust Situation: Do I even have to tell you?

Cyber-boyfriend: The HILLS are alive with the sound of MUSIC!

Favorite Class SF: Defense Against the Dark Arts

Least SF: Potions. Eat it, Snape!

Pilates Minutes: I was so happy I did 30 minutes.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 12

Jude-thinking Minutes: 10

HP-thinking Minutes: 5

Michael-Thinking Minutes: 301

HG glares: I wouldn't know!

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: I just don't care!

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 80

Philosophical Question of Day: Can things get any better than this?

**Day Eighteen of Free Independence**

**Thursday, February 3****rd**

**Dancing Around in Deliciously Sintimate Apparel**

**5:23 AM**

**5:23 a.m. – **It's an ungodly hour! It's an ungodly hour! LOOK WHO'S UP AT AN UNGODLY HOUR! I don't feel fat and I don't feel like incapacitated crap: _I feel like dancing around in deliciously, sinfully intimate apparel._

Will you throw tomatoes if I sing the Michael song? Well, I like tomatoes anyway.

Michael, _cher_ Michael, _je t'aime autant qu'Orlando Bloom! Oui, oui, c'est vrai ! Ce soir, je serai ta fille polisonne ! Appellant toutes les filles ! Je sais que tu me regardes en haut et en bas ! Je sais que tu veux mon corps ! Oh! J'aime t'aimer, baby ! __Oh! J'aime t'aimer, baby! _

Wow, these songs totally aren't as much fun in French as they are in English! Shall I sing the revised version of the Michael song—then will you keep your tomatoes to yourself? Deal.

Michael, dear, Michael, I love you as much as Orlando Bloom… yes, it's true…. So… (Drumroll please)… TO-NIGHT! I'll be your naughty girl, calling all the girls! I know you look me up and down—I know you want my body! Oh! Love to love you, baby! Oh! Love to love you, baby!

Yes, I'm crazy. Your point is?

FINE! The little house-elf gave me coffee—I couldn't resist!

**6:14** **a.m. **– You still think I'm crazy? Well, I'm still the winner in this situation. Who got to prance around in their Sintimates singing raunchy, remade Beyoncé songs? Hmm? ME. If I were a meaner person, I would throw back my head and laugh like this:

Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

You must be so relieved that I am not a meaner person.

**7:56 a.m. **– Ah, the joy of Charms. While it is no longer my very favorite class, it is still pretty darn good. Professor Flitwick is teaching the students how to set and extinguish fires in his nice, old way. God, I love old people. I can't wait until I have an old person of my own.

Wait: _What am I saying?_

**8:04 a.m. **– I love Defense Against the Dark Arts. "Mr. Turner" is talking, and I'm paying rapt attention with sweeping background music in my head, and all the girls are swooning, but I'm swooning so much better than they are, and Michael's not giving Little Patil or any of the others the slightest extra glance—he's looking at me. My heart has melted and is oozing into my shoes.

"So naturally—" Michael flashes the secret smile, as if to say _surely you remember yesterday's adventures in snogging, a wondrous private moment between the two of us, as if we are the two upper-echelon members of a super secret snogging society? _Naturally, I smile back with the sinfully happy smile of the initiated.

Assured, he continues. "If one were caught unaware—" secret smiles— "and had no time to prepare for an attack, this would be a particularly useful spell. Don't you agree, _Ms. Delacour?_"

"Wholeheartedly, _Mr. Turner_."

GOD, I love this class.

**9:02** **a.m. **– Am currently in the faculty bathroom with all my hair intact. I'm skiving off History of Magic at present, which I'm sure God will punish me for by, I don't know, sending a bunch of hungry auguries after me to drive me insane or give me a weather forecast or whatever. I don't care if the gods punish me—I'm having too good a time being sinful and deliciously in lurve with Michael. You hear that? BRING IT, JESUS.

**10:05 a.m. **– Am in Divination, asleep with my eyes open learning about the magical pebble method. I don't know what the magical pebble method is, however, because I wasn't listening. From what I am gathering, the magical pebble is just a mood ring with uglier colors.

What? Is she trying to speak to me?

**10:28** **a.m. **– I have just been pebbled. Or stoned—whatever. Professor Trelawney must have sensed that I wasn't paying attention with the third eye she and my sister have in common and decided to make me the example. "Open your hand," she said in her fake, mystical voice—you know: "I am going to SHOW YOU the SECRETS of the UNIVERSE… BLAH, BLAH, POMPOUS CRAP, BLAH…"

So, I opened my hand and she put this burning hot pebble in my hand. We both know she did that on purpose just because I don't pay attention to her stupid classes, but irregardless. (Don't go getting on my case: I know that "irregardless" is an illogical double negative—it should either be regardless, or irrespective—but irregardless! This word is so much more fun.) Anyhoo, she put this burning hot pebble in my hand and left it there as I stared at her in shock and agony. After, like, fifteen seconds she snatched it out and threw it in a huge bucket of water. "Now, let me see your hand."

I STILL HAVE THAT HUGE BURN MARK ON MY HAND FROM THAT STUPID, EVIL PEBBLE.

"Hm, interesting—it appears to be… a mermaid," she said.

"And what the hell does that mean?" I snapped. "That I'm going to die a sudden, violent, marine-related death?"

Trelawney looked even more sour than usual. "No. As a matter of FACT, it means that you should expect a strange adventure involving romance and temptation. After that, death is largely possible."

Biotch.

**12 NOON** – I hate mermaids, I hate pebbles, I hate Professor Trelawney, I hate diet drinks, and I hate the world. I hate every effing thing except Nutri-grain bars. The world would be so lost if all the Nutri-grain bars were gone.

**2:30 p.m.** – If Michael is my boyfriend, isn't he supposed to sit with me at lunch?

**6:45** **p.m.** – And at dinner? Isn't he supposed to sit with me at dinner too?

**8:03 p.m.** – Omigod, did we break up without me realizing it?

**Day Twenty-Two of Free Independence**

**Monday, February 7****th**

**Going Crazy Like I Have Been for the Past Three Days**

**10:56 AM**

**10:56 a.m. – **Did we break up? I mean, seriously. Did something just happen? Has he finally noticed the genetic gap between my sister in I, seeing at last that I come up short in the in aesthetic department, or is it my appalling lack of Defense Against the Dark Arts prowess, rendering meaningful professional conversation impossible? Must find answer to this question soon before the world explodes, because we all know that that's what comes next.

**12 NOON** – The world has not exploded—there is still time.

**12: 15 p.m.** – He's here! But he's not sitting down. _Pourquoi?  
_

**12:30 p.m.** – Wow, I love having a boyfriend. Okay, he did not sit down, _exactement_, _mais _he did give me _une bise très fantastique!_ Kissing, obviously, is the solution to everything, of course. And this, obviously, means that we are not broken up and I am free to stop being an obsessive freak.

**5:02 p.m.** – Nope, still an obsessive freak.

**6:14** **p.m. **– Wait—wait! Nope, I got nothing.

**8:12 p.m.** – Good news! No. I'm still a freak. Sorry guys.

**Day Twenty-Three of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, February 8****th**

**Being Floo'd at Inappropriate Hours**

**4:03 AM**

**4:03 a.m. – **I am currently being floo'd by Jacques. There is no logical reason for the time, as there is no time difference between London and Lyons. Jacques just _desperately_ needed to speak with me. I will jot down our conversation as it occurs.

Une Petite Conversation _avec_ Jacques

Jacques: Fleur!

Fleur: Jacques!

Can't you already tell this is one of those movie scenes? In a couple of seconds we will both be crying as we waltz down memory lane.

Fleur: Omigosh, what are you doing here—er, _flooing _here?

Jacques: I wanted to talk to you.

Fleur: Do you know what time it is?

Jacques: 4 o'clock 5 minutes and 38 seconds.

Fleur: Die.

Jacques: I got your letter.

Fleur: I still maintain that I am perfectly sane.

Jacques: "Chouchou?"

Fleur: Forgive me.

Jacques: It was suspicious. Have you been secretly watching VH1?

Fleur: No.

Jacques: Don't lie to me—I'll know.

Fleur: Just little updates every now and then.

Jacques: I knew it. You deserve to have your Diet Cokes decarbonated and your Nutri-Grain bars confiscated.

Fleur: GASP.

Jacques: I didn't want to say it, but you forced my hand.

Fleur: I solemnly swear on the hotness of Orlando Bloom that I will no longer watch my VH1, and when I do, you will never find out about it.

Jacques: That's much better.

Fleur: Isn't it though?

Jacques: Has your sister delivered the skunks to your room yet?

Fleur: Ex_cuse_ me?

Jacques: Your sister—before she left she bought seventeen pet skunks, put them in a shipping crate and had them delivered to Hogwarts. I was wondering if you'd gotten them yet.

Fleur: I will kill that skank-bitch with my own bare hands.

Jacques: And then I'm sure you'll wash them, dry them, and have them manicured.

Fleur: You know me so well. Maybe I'll just hire an assassin.

Jacques, smirking and dismissive: Then force him into being your Pilates instructor.

Fleur: I swear to G, we share a brain.

Jacques: But there really is a reason I floo'd you at this ungodly hour even though I know that by waking you up at this time, I am breaking the rules of Section 73-C: Being Floo'd at Ungodly Hours in Ungodly Places.

Fleur: And if there wasn't?

Jacques: Oh, well I would lie to your face about it.

Fleur: If my standards weren't so high, I'd marry you.

Jacques: Understandable.

Fleur: You're so vain I bet you think this song is about you.

Jacques: Isn't it?

Fleur: No duh in a bucket.

_A period of maniacal smiling ensues._

Fleur: Now, really: what is this oh-so-important reason that you floo'd me at this ungodly hour.

Jacques: The truth? I was sort of curious to see first-hand just how insane you were going over your cyber-boyfriend. What's his name…?

Fleur: Michael—and I am not going insane over him. As I have stated previously, I maintain that I am perfectly sane. What on earth makes you think that I am insane?

Jacques: "If you mess with my man, I'm gonna be the one to bring it to ya," maybe. The fact that you said "he's mine" six times—the fact that you _said_ you'd gone crazy, maybe?

Fleur: It's a song—I swear to G, it's a song.

Jacques: Right.

Fleur: No, seriously—it's a song. "If you mess with my man, I'm gonna be the one to bring it to ya, if you mess with my man. Find your own, leave mine alone…" It's a freaking song, Jacques, I swear. Top forty radio and all that.

Jacques: Right.

Fleur: Shut up.

_Silence ensues_.

Fleur: SHUT UP.

_Silence._

Fleur: You suck, Jacques, now talk to me dammit.

Jacques: Thanks.

Fleur: You're welcome you sadistic piece of _merde_.

Jacques: You're no peach either.

Fleur: Well, you bring out the worst in me.

Jacques: That's why you love me.

Fleur: True.

_More maniacal smiling_.

Jacques: So you're completely sane.

Fleur: Yes.

Jacques: You haven't gone into post-Michael shock or anything? You haven't freaked out over that Renée would steal him from you, or that he would break up with you, or that you weren't even together in the first place? You haven't called launched into any tirades on the promiscuity of any Seventh Years, have you?

Fleur: No.

Jacques: Oh, Fleur. You're lying to my face, aren't you?

Fleur: You know it.

It's like we're perfect for each other—it's really too bad I'm not attracted to him—otherwise all my relationship problems would be over like _that_.

**5:30 a.m. **– Returning to bed after so much banter is thoroughly impossible. Have decided to start reading the new trashy books that arrived in the mail for me on Sunday. I have ordered seven, for good measure.

Three in the "Temptation NYC" series -

Book One: Seduction in Soho

Book Two: Charming in Chinatown

Book Three: Lust in Little Italy

Two in the "Halcius Pottotius and His Band of Merry Knights" Series:

Book Two: Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed (sequel to the one I just finished, "Halcius Pottotius and His Fair Lady")

Book Three: Halcius Pottotius and the Book of Love

And then:

Dirty Girls Wear Pink (and)

Dangerous Girls Eat Chocolate

**5:45** **a.m. **– Which book of pure, unadulterated filth shall I start with first? I mean, I know from experience that the books in HP series get pretty racy, but really, they're more romantic than anything else. I'm still upset that Halcius Pottotius chose Harmonia Granker, so I think I'm boycotting everything Athena O'Hereagall writes right now. I haven't ever read anything in the "Temptation NYC" series, but I can already tell that they're filled with reckless spending, which I relate to, so should I read those? Then again, there are the _really_ tempting ones: "Dirty Girls Wear Pink" and "Dangerous Girls Eat Chocolate." Hm…

Eeny-meeny miny mo…

"Dirty Girls Wear Pink" it is!

**7:11 a.m. **– I was getting very into DGWP when I actually had to go to class. It is actually incredibly enthralling. You cannot imagine my anger and fury as I realized it was 6:30 and had to stop right in the middle of Chapter Seven: Winner Takes it All. I blame Professor Binns. After all, it was his class I had to get out of bed for.

I can still see the mermaid from Divination. Curse that old hag.

**9:00** **a.m. **– Am wondering if I can sneak back into my room and get "Dirty Girls Wear Pink." Though it might seem odd to Professor Snape if I were randomly reading a shiny, pink book with a completely random tie and martini glass on the cover during his class, with the words "Get What You Want" emblazoned on it in 3-D silver glitter. Maybe I should just pay attention.

**10:00 a.m. – **Hah! I am sitting at the very back during Care of Magical Creatures, deeply involved in "Dirty Girls Wear Pink!" Am sure Hagrid won't notice anything; have slipped it discreetly behind a nondescript black notebook. Excuse me, but Violette Delacrise is about to get cornered by Henri Potier in her posh Parisian apartment wearing nothing but Chanel No. 19.

**11:00 a.m. **– Damn you, Draco Malfoy, damn you! He has interrupted the most important aspect of my day. He stopped me from finding out what happened between Violette Delacrise and Henri Potier in that posh Parisian apartment!

That horrid, horrid child (all right, he's not really a child if he's seventeen—but I swear he has the brain of a three-year-old) released his stupid Knarl, which promptly attacked me. I shall never forgive him for this.

**12 NOON** – I have forgiven him, as the scene I so ardently described to you at ten o'clock was largely anticlimactic. Henri's phone rang just as he was about to discover Violette. The only good thing about that chapter was the "So you think you're a Dirty Girl" Section at the very end.

What I have learned:

a) I am not a dirty girl

b) I _could_ be a dirty girl.

c) I _should_ be a dirty girl.

**6:05 a.m. **– Tried being a dirty girl. Was too exhausting. Will try again later.

**Day Twenty-Four of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, February 9****th**

**In Potions**

**7:10 AM**

**7:10 a.m. – **Alas, Potions is so uninteresting these days. I spend this class thinking, "If only, if only, Jude Law, who has been restored to full hotness capacity, were Potions Master and Orlando Bloom taught Divination, the world would be perfect. However, Potions is wasted on One Who Has Yet to Discover Something We Witches and Wizards Call Soap and Divination is run by Professor T********—a loss to humanity." That is my brain on Potions.

**7:15 a.m. **– Life is unbearably dull. Nothing in the world is fascinating except for Michael. Nothing can compare to him. No one is as funny as Michael, or as smart as Michael, or as hot—

**7:20 a.m. **– Harry has come straight from Quidditch practice, and I don't believe I have ever wanted anything more than I want him to bend over and pick up that empty box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans for me, right now. He's sweaty and all worked out and he's wearing his Quidditch robes and it's like his entire body is being hugged by spandex. Oooh, Lust.

But we have a boyfriend, don't we, Fleur? There is no longer room to think about your immoral, irresponsible, and probably illegal lust for this sixteen year old god. Oh my God, he has just dropped his quill. Watch as I, along with every other girl in this room, nearly break my neck standing up and "stretching."

God, that was good. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. None of this. We have promised ourselves to let this fan-girlish, lust-filled part of ourselves go. We can't go breaking our rules can we? No.

God, that was good.

**8:40 a.m. **– Am I mentally cheating on Michael if I keep on wanting to go all psycho-chick and _Imperius _his hot self into dropping his quill again?

**9:02** **a.m. **– He dropped his quill again.

**9:04** **a.m. **– And again.

**9:06** **a.m. **– And again.

**9:10** **a.m. **– Parvati Patil has been sent out of the room for hexing Harry's quill. Well, actually, McGonagall's only mad that she missed and got Draco's quill instead. Ewww… and yet… hmmm… and yet: ewww.

**9:12 a.m. **– It was a definite ewww.

**9:20 a.m. **– It was an ew, wasn't it?

**9:30 a.m. **– Of course it was.

**9:45 a.m.** – Ewww. I can't believe I ever thought "hmmm."

**11:20** **a.m. **– Philosophical Question Time! Who's got a better bum? Michael or Harry? Because at the moment, Harry's bum is looking _marvelous_, and I'm not sure whether I should keep staring at it or just stare (legally) at Michael's. Or maybe I should just imagine Hugh Dancy's bum. I mean, I have a much better understanding of Hugh Dancy's bum. He spent that entire crappy movie (_Ella Enchanted, _worst movie adaptation of all time, which I nevertheless watched 6 times because Hugh Dancy is one hot tamale) in leather pants, which I got to acutely observe because he spent all of his time rolling on the ground and kicking at things. In a very manly way of course. I hate Anne Hathaway; why does she get to spend time with him?

**11:36** **a.m. **– After a long bit of deliberation, I'm thinking Harry. I know—Le Tourneau Alert—Le Tourneau Alert! Stop harassing me; it's not like he's a sixth grader! But this is not because his bum is any better than Michael's or Hugh Dancy's. It's because Harry wears sexy pants. I mean, Hugh's pants, while great Bum-Viewing Pants, weren't incredibly yum-tastic.

**1:05** **p.m. **– Am now in DADA waiting for Michael to come in and teach this class. Have just realized the potential sexiness of this class. I mean seriously: What if Michael is evil? WHAT IF? And no one gets this but Harry, and Harry's all, "I know what you're up to Professor Turner, and you won't you get away with it." And then Michael's all, "Actually, Harry, I think I will." And then they take their shirts off and do battle. In Bum-Viewing Sexy Pants.

**4:06 p.m. **– I have completely changed my mind: only Michael deserves the Bum-Viewing Sexy Pants. Only Michael's bum is perfect enough.

**5:33 p.m.** – Ew… Draco has clearly stolen the Bum-Viewing Sexy Pants, or copied them or similar, and is wearing them at dinner. EWWWWWWW. Or is it HMMM?

**7:04** **p.m.** – No, it's EWWWW.


	4. Best Friends and Buckets of Tuna

**Further February: **Best Friends and Buckets of Tuna**  


* * *

**

**Day Twenty-Five of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, February 10****th**

**Back in the Room**

**8:11 AM**

**8:11 a.m. – **I should not be back in my room, because I've got COMC, but I really don't care much and COMC can wait. I've just gotten a letter from Mum, which has proven to be quite disturbing, and wish to be alone with my thoughts. Dearest Jesus, we had this conversation last time—BACK OFF.

Mum's letter went rather like this:

"Dear Flurry-Pie,

"I miss you so much… further tosh, tosh, tosh… I can't wait to see you back home again… tosh, tosh, tosh… your father loves you very much, etc. The things I miss most about having you here are as follows: your radiant presence, etc. The reasons you had to go, however, are as follows: you spend too much money, etc. I have been going through your old things as I remodel the house and doing so has inspired the following emotions: sadness, etc. The things your father has said concerning you since you been gone are as follows: 'Flurry would have liked that pink duvet cover,' etc. Miss you—miss you—miss you.

"But anyway, dahling, I was speaking with the builders this morning up in the Eastern Tower, and I thought, 'Dearie me, I've neglected to tell poor Fleur about my little project,' so I best tell you! Since you left in January, I have been on one "Big Fat Extreme Homemaker" as you say in your American shows. I have decided that our house needs an entirely new look, a look that reflects this lively and rejuvenated chapter in the book of my life. I have never felt more liberated and free. My life is taking a whole new direction as I venture into the world of Arts and Music and Dance and Exercise, and I can see Big Things happening. While I was in the library, looking for books to send to you, dear, I found myself immersed in one while the paint was drying in the Laundry Room: _Body by Me, A Step by Step Guide to Healthy and Effective Living_. You may think, like I thought, that this is a diet book, but you are _wrong_. This is _not_ Just a Diet Book. This is a book that has changed my life and way of Living. I think differently now that I have read this book, and I notice that my thoughts are more profound. I have taken up Yoga and Pilates, and discovered the Art of Feng Shui—I have opened up my chi and am actively pursuing the Buddhist way of living. The path of my life has taken a New Turn.

"I know you appreciate what I am doing for myself, which is why I know you will appreciate this wonderful news, and that I am broadening my worldly scope by staying in Bangladesh for the next two months! Ah, dahling, it is wonderful to be able to communicate with you again. I look forward to further correspondence.

"Kisses, kisses,

"Your loving mum"

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?

**8:30 a.m.** – You may find yourself asking: Why would Fleur find that letter disturbing when it was a perfectly pleasant expression of her mother's zest for life? There is one simple reason: My mother doesn't have zest for life.

In my mother's world: everything pisses her off. "The city's too big," "Your brain is too small," "Your grandpa's too drunk," everything. "You're too overweight," "You're taking up space," "Why are you just standing there like a prat, damn it all—_do_ something!" "I clean this house, day in day out, and you have the Nerve to come up and make this mess—don't you look away from me—I want you to _see_ what you've done! See it!"

When you're around my mother, something is wrong with you, always. "Damn it, Gabrielle, stop _growing!_ If I have to buy you one more set of dress robes, I'll have had it—I'll have both your feet amputated!" My mother is never centered and she is always cursing. It's where we learn our curses, for Mum swears like a sailor. "Renée, I won't have you going out of the house looking like an effing _poulet_!" Funny thing is: Gabrielle always thought that meant chicken.

I don't know why Dad even tolerates her, because she's an overbearing, dominating madwoman, but he does all the same.

Oh, and Mum hates Beauxbatons. She thinks it's beyond insipid to name a school "beautiful sticks" and she hates having to buy schoolbooks. "For God's Sakes, for what effing reason do they have two effing spell books on here? What the bloody hell do they mean by that?" One of the few things she hates more than Beauxbatons is pop culture, which makes me think that the only reason she bought me that ticket to New York is because she wanted to get rid of me. I'm absolutely positive she hates kids too and Dad made her have them. She's not very maternal.

She hates when people tell her she's not very maternal; it always just makes her go, "Good job, Captain Effing OBVIOUS—what the eff else did you expect?"

This new "thing" she's doing, this messed-up project doesn't make any sense!

**9:05** **a.m.** – I've been thinking about my mother all through Charms today, which I suppose is rather horrible of me because I love Charms and I ought to pay attention, but this pressing matter is far more important! WHAT AM I TO DO ABOUT MOTHER? I'm close to positive she's gone round the bend.

"New Turn?" What kind of loser/mother/thing capitalizes random letters in the middle of their sentences? "My life is taking a whole new direction as I venture into the world of Arts and Music and Dance and Exercise, and I can see Big Things happening?" What the bloody eff is that? My mother hates exercise, and that's why she makes me do it—she hates dance—she hates happy people—she hates music, because to her it's all trash—and she _hates_ people who say "Big Things" in that Capital Letter voice! Why on earth would she even go to all the trouble of switching up our house? She _never_ wants any extra work.

And what about the emotions? It's not like you didn't see the emotions. MY MOTHER EXPRESSED EMOTIONS. Do you know how effing freakish that is? She was like: "And now, honey darling, Flurry Pie with Sugar and a Cherry, I'm feeling Sad because you aren't Here with Me." I don't know what the bloody hell that is!! Why didn't Gabrielle warn me something like this was happening in my own home—to my own home! Ack! This is such _merde_.

**10:15** **a.m.** – Ran into Renée between classes; she seemed completely unconcerned when I explained about Mum's letter. "Yep, Mum's gone off her rocker. So what? I'm not living with her anymore—I'm getting my own apartment—and you're not either. What are you so worried about? God, Fleur, you're such a spaz—I can barely believe you at times."

I don't think she gets that Mum's gone bonkers—with the yoga and the Pilates—that's just wrong! Ack! No one here understands.

**11:34** **a.m.** – I've decided that I must write to Jacques. He's the only one who can deal with this properly and in sixteen different languages in case Mum's taking up Sanskrit as a part of her new freakish In the Zone self.

_Dear Jacques,_

_I have just received post from Mum. She is stark raving mad, I'm swearing to you. She's said she's remodeling the house, which is outside of enough in itself, but that's not all. She's become "immersed" in this book: __Body by Me, A Step by Step Guide to Healthy and Effective Living__, and she's "venturing" into the world of Capital "A" Art and Capital "D" Dance and Capital "M" Music and Capital "E" Exercise. She's doing yoga and Pilates and capitalizing random words like "Big Things" and using them in sentences like: "I can see Big Things happening in the future." SHE'S MAD, Jacques._

_I've known the crazy madwoman my mother usually is—that I can handle. But this is a different kettle of bad-smelling fish. She's happy and lively and centered and into Feng Shui, and calling me Flurry Effing Pie. Scary thing is: She didn't even put the "effing" in there. Just don't know what to do! Jacques, you must help me—you must! I don't know what I'll do without you! Things can change, of course they can—they can paint my room, ravage and ruin my books, they can spray my room with foul-smelling perfumes and rain havoc upon my clothing, but my Mother can't go loopy and strange and loving and _maternal_._ _Outside of enough, Jacques, outside of enough._

_Please say you'll help me understand this and fix this. I can't deal with it alone and Renée's no help. Gabby didn't even think to warn me about this, and who else is there? Dad? Doting Mum-Worshipper. I need YOU. Fleur Delacour NEEDS __YOU__._

_Love, Begging and Pleading,_

_Fleur_

If Jacques does not respond to that, I will have my Pilates instructor murder him, and that's that.

**1:05 p.m.** – I wonder if Jacques's gotten my letter yet. No; is completely unreasonable to think he has. But Poussière is unbelievable fast flier! Hm—will floo me when he receives it, right? DID NOT TELL HIM TO DO SO IN LETTER. Damn in a bucket.

**1:56 p.m.** – Poussière isn't _slow_—she must be there _now_. Jacques must be writing his letter now, filled with sweet multilingual advice that makes amazing sense leaving me wondering, "Fleur, why are you such an idiot? Why can't you think of things like this?"

**3:00 p.m.** – Jacques isn't a slow writer—he should be done with his profound thinking by now, and Poussière must at least be halfway back, ready to solve all my problems. Will build Jacques an enormous shrine if he solves this problem. Should have mentioned in letter. Would be here by now.

**4:47** – Poussière should be here! Oh, eff. Watch me gain three pounds of stress weight. I will be fat and unattractive; hence Michael will break up with me and pursue Renée, leaving me crying in my room until I die of pure sadness. Damn you, Jacques!

**6:03** – Where is it? I sent this letter some five hours ago. Jacques, having read it by now, must know how much it means to me. Why would he withhold such an important document from me? Does he hate me that me—and want me to suffer? Suffer??? But he knows I adore him? Should have told him about shrine.

**Day Twenty-Six of Free Independence**

**Thursday, February 11****th**

**Breakfast with Michael**

**6:31 AM**

**6:31 a.m. – **Am completely unable to enjoy this! Michael is sitting with me, being brilliant and sexy, and I am completely unable to enjoy it. He's talking theory with Professor Lupin, who is departing today, and he's sounding so educated and hot, but I can only stare at the "sky" and wonder, "What is wrong with my mother?"

I can't believe that of all things, I am worrying about my mother right now. I'm thinking: "Has Dad noticed anything? He hasn't written me a thing since I left—maybe he's forgotten about me. He would have told me if he noticed something—he would have written me." And then I think about Gabrielle. _Why_ didn't Gabrielle tell me? She must be as alarmed as I am—but then: she was only in Bordeaux a little bit, on Break, before she went back to school. Maybe she was too busy thinking about her schoolwork or something.

But Gabrielle _never_ thinks about her schoolwork! Why the bloody eff would she start now? She doesn't believe in education! How can you spend all your life believing that education is the greater evil among Satan and conservatives and then suddenly: Licky Boom-Boom Down: CONVERSION.

Michael, looking over, is now asking me why I have just written "licky boom-boom down" in big letters. How can he be American and not watch VH1?

**7:04 a.m.** – I have decided that Jacques must die for making me so crazy. I hate him. I hate him despite the fact that he un-sucky-fied the Suck Fest that was my English, and that he's sweet and adorable and sometimes sexy in his own freakishly cute Tutor-ish way. HE SUCKS.

**8:32 a.m.** – He is a crappy friend. I am getting him soap for Christmas. Really feminine Vanilla Sugar Bodywash. Not soap—BODYWASH.

**9:00 a.m.** – No, I'm getting him deodorant. What better way to say "You Stink, You Evil Thickheaded Prat" than with deodorant?

**9:56 a.m. **– You know: if I'm really mad at him, I won't get him _anything_ for Christmas. This is a new concept: not buying Jacques presents at all. Hm.

**10:12** **a.m.** – When his mother goes cracked, I'm not going to lift a finger to try and help _him_.

**11:55** **a.m.** – Unless his mother's _really_ cracked and she has trouble getting around and she does crazy, schizophrenic things, like taking off on her broom and running it into the local liquor store. Then I'll probably offer to take her places safely—like walking.

**12:09 p.m.** – Michael has just asked me what's wrong. I've told him nothing. He says, "Then why are you writing so much? You seemed really preoccupied during DADA."

This is true. Michael is observant and sexy, which can only mean that he gets 50 Boyfriend points for being so, but gets 25 points subtracted for noticing me lying. I never have this problem with Jacques. Then again Jacques is a FILTHY PIECE OF POND SCUM, isn't he?

And he notices—he just never calls me on it.

**2:04** **p.m.** – This whole day is stupid. I think I've gained four pounds of stupid day weight. Add this to the three pounds of stress weight I'm sure I gained yesterday, and I will no longer be attractive enough to keep Michael around. Will tire easily of constant snapping: "I told you I'm fine, can't you leave it at that!" Will move onto Renée because she only snaps at members of the same sex and is an easy ho.

Damn it all, I think I'm turning into Mum.

**3:15** **p.m.** – I've thought about it, and naturally, if Mum's going to go and not be Mum anymore, then _someone_ has to be Mum, right? So it's entirely possible that I've gone and become my mother! So who'll be me, that's what I want to know. And who's Mum?

If Mum has gone and become Madonna, I will commit suicide.

**5:12** **p.m.** – Jacques still has not responded to letter.

**6:07** **p.m.** – Jacques has _still_ not responded to letter, though I have sent him 2,025 telepathic messages to do so and 4,051 telling him that he deserves to be crucified with thumbtacks. Hm, maybe he's mad about the whole thumbtacks thing. Would hurt, I admit. Grrr; if he has not responded by tomorrow, then he deserves it.

**Day Twenty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Friday, February 12****th**

**Dying Slowly in Potions**

**8:09 AM**

**8:09 a.m. **–Professor Snape is unbelievable. Let me rephrase that: Professor Snape is a slimy git who should sod off and die.

I'm v. _pissé_.

**9:13 a.m.** – Michael is now very pissed, very _enervé,_ which is completely the fault of the disgusting Severus Snape. Will explain later. Wish very much could sleep, for am feeling like utter crap, but can't as Michael is making speech. Must get to Charms or will be late.

**11:05** **a.m.** – Have checked in and Michael is still v. _enervé_. I do not blame him for being so very _enervé_, because I am exactly the same, though I have cooled down a bit and he is quite murderous, and hot-looking. Should have made him this upset much earlier, for looks incredibly dashing on him. Ack—must not get all excited about such, am still sort of upset too.

Must explain situation to you: Snape has sent me a very bad Valentine. WAS VERY INAPPROPRIATE. Michael found such inappropriate Valentine and was very upset. Valentine had illicit poetry such as:

"'Cause what I feel's extraordinary—

C'mon, be my Sexcretary."

Michael is now saying that he will strangle Snape with his own bare hands, which would be entertaining to watch. Hope he is serious.

**1:02 p.m. **– Snape is still alive (but I did get to watch as Michael very sexily flipped him the bird at lunch) and I am still letter-less. I cannot believe Jacques. He is usually so quick to help me: "Of course, Fleur," and "Sure thing, Fleur." What the hell kind of turnaround is this?

DAMN YOU, JACQUES, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU WHEN I EFFING NEED YOU?

**1:06 p.m. **– Michael wants to know who Jacques is. "He's a stupid git, and that's all you need to know," I have said. So, Jacques, if you are reading this, which you shouldn't be, but being a stupid git, might be, let it be known unto you that I know you are a stupid git and intend to spread the word.

**1:10 p.m.** – "All right, but how do you know him," Michael is asking. Damn him, being so hot and observant and other such crap, but I do wish he would stop asking questions and being so actively involved in my life! Can't he just be like other boyfriends and just sit looking excruciatingly sexy for a bit until I _want_ him to ask me questions and find my life fascinating? Men are useless. In the future, they will be locked up in cages like the monkeys they are, and their only use will be as sex objects.

**2:05 p.m.** – Owls have already flown in and there is nothing from Jacques or anyone else for that matter. Keeping eye out just in case Poussière comes flying in during COMC like before. Am becoming incredibly distracted as of late. God, Mum's probably gotten up to the worst redecorating the library. Walls are probably bright pink with lime green curtains and bean bag chairs pushed up against them with several wild plants growing in and out of this and that and is probably sprawling shag carpeting everywhere. What a thoroughly depressing thought—I'm bound to gain more stress weight.

**4:12 p.m.** – Will just send Jacques anthrax in the post; one quick whiff and all my troubles will be miles away. Will save money on Christmas gift of deodorant. However, without Jacques, how am I going to figure out what to do with Mum? _Merde dans un seau._

**5:47 p.m.** – If I weigh myself, I will only find I have gained weight, which will make me depressed and gain _more_ weight. Ha-ha, you cannot make me fall into _that_ trap again Scale Company! I've caught onto you and your evil Stress-Pound Plan of World Domination. And instead of listening to the voices in my head asking, "_Combien, Fleur? Combien?"_ I will not find out how much—I will instead catalogue my Affolé d'Affaires Courant.

AAC:

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: five foot seven (and will remain permanently so, of course)

Weight: 128 lbs. (I am finally secure enough to reveal my weight to you, so you had better appreciate this, and be fully aware that you have moved onto a higher echelon of Fleur-Knowledge. Of course, now that this information is written here, this book is Top Secret MI-5, FBI, CIA, SDECE—Service de Documentation Extérieure et de Contre-espionnage—type thing.)

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Lust Situation: I find myself utterly unable to lust after Michael properly, as Mum is cracked and Jacques is killing me by not helping me fix her. There is no longer any real need to lust after Harry now that I have Michael to act out all my sexual frustration on. What? It's true!

Cyber-boyfriend: I can't pay attention to him—my mum is too nutty to pay attention to him.

Favorite Class SF: Charms again; what's the point of Defense if I can't spend all of it staring at Michael's butt?

Least SF: Divination—I'll never forgive that hag for "pebbling" me. Is that what you call that dreadful process?

Pilates Minutes: None.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: minimal—15

Jude-thinking Minutes: shameful—10

HP-thinking Minutes: disgraceful—5

Michael-Thinking Minutes: appalling—28

HG glares: Only three that I noticed today.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 18, for he's just as persistent as ever.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 2 to 3

Philosophical Question of Day: How cracked is Mum? And if you're completely cracked, do you know you're cracked, or do you go about the day feeling as if you're fine and wondering why people are staring at you? Or do you notice people staring at you at all?

**Day Twenty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Saturday, February 13****th**

**Yelling Loudly at Post**

**6:13 AM**

**6:13 a.m. **–Post is stupid and evil! All there is in the effing post for me today is an effing copy of "The Abs Diet" by David Effing Zinczenko!

DAMN. SHISA. KUSO. MIERDA. BENJO. MERDE. CHIER. PÉTASSE. GARCE. BRUJA. PUTAIN. SALOPE. POULET. SALAUD. CONNARD ! That's every dirty word I can think of that can be printed here. I know for a fact that I'm missing at least four dirty American ones. Too scandalizing. There is one particularly good thing about French: even the meanest sentences sound like complements.

_Tu es une putain méchante, et je ne t'aime pa__s du tout. Il faut que je te dise que tu es toujours une très grande salope—vraiment, une pièce de merde ! Il y a beaucoup des mots pour toi—putain, poulet, garce, salope, et finalement, je les ai dits ! _

Now, put a smile on your face and say that in your pleasantest French accent, and you are the clerk at Tiffany's telling you _really_ you look MAH-VELLOUS in that necklace. Wanna know what it means?

Ooh, looky: Free French Curses Time! You can thank my mother and Renée for this.

"You are an evil whore and I hate you. I must say that you are always a huge bitch/slut/tart—seriously, a piece of… shisa. There are lots of words for you: whore, prostitute, bitch, slut, and finally I've said them all!"

Renée taught me that paragraph when I was seven and I went around saying that for a week, before my father explained to me that those are dirty, dirty words that only mommy uses.

**7:34** **a.m. **– Am reading "The Abs Diet," for even though is written by person with horrible last name and is from loony mother, could afford to have abs. Rather, I would kill myself to have abs.

**8:12** **a.m.** – "I'm passionate about this plan because I know it works. I've seen it work, and so will you." Well, now I'm sold—the Abs Diet must be right for me if this David Z-blah-blah is so confident in it! Not. "During the course of this 6-week plan, you can lose up to 20 pounds of fat (much of it in the first couple of weeks, and from your belly first) and gain 4 to 6 pounds of lean muscle."

Wait a minute, Skipper—20 pounds? Hm…

**9:51 a.m. **– Am imagining self 20 pounds lighter. I am an emaciated sex goddess _à la_ hyper-standards of femininity! Wait, must not get sucked into the world of fad dieting and low self-esteem caused so easily by the media. Hm, too late: have already been to America.

**10:04 a.m.** – This diet involves an incredible amount of protein. I am going to have to eat 128 grams of protein a day. That is ridiculous, so I had better start now. I am also going to have to be super crazy exercise bulimic. Obviously, protein will only work as diet supplement if there is crazy exercise bulimia. Will finish Chapter 2 later, as must go become super-fit hot chick.

**1:05** **p.m.** – Spent all of lunch on floor doing crunches and leg lifts. Am extremely hungry, but my physical fitness is far more importance that sustaining my body with meaningless food. Must exercise more!

**1:17 p.m.** – Have just realized utter crappiness of situation—am supposed to eat six times per day, which is 3 snacks and 3 meals. If I skip lunch, that's only five! Would eat now, but there is nothing to eat and I am in Care of Magical Creatures. I could eat one of the Bowtruckles, but I doubt they'd taste incredibly good. Am wondering if I could _Informare_ "The Abs Diet" and make pictures of food come to life—then again, might taste like paper.

Wait: why have I never tried to _Informare_ my Orlando Bloom poster?

**1:45 p.m. **– Am reading about the evils of High Fructose Corn Syrup, the Ultimate Food Enemy. Would very much rather be reading "Dirty Girls Wear Pink" actually finding out about the mysterious disappearance of Violette Delacrise and how Henri Potier is frantically searching for her. Instead must do squats.

Grrr, Fleur—do you want abs or not?

**3:05 p.m.** – Have just actually finished reading Chapter Two. States specifically that for the first two weeks of the Abs Diet, no exercise is required. _Merde_.

**3:30 p.m.** – Have weighed self again and am horrified to discover that in all my protein gorging, I have gained a pound. ACK! The world is conspiring against me, and I've still received no word from Damn Jacques.

**4:12 p.m.** – I'm fat and letter-less and miserable. I hope Jacques is happy at what he's done to me, because there's no way I'm happy about it. I'm never speaking to him ever again. I'm locking myself in a closet and never coming out of it ever.

**5:06 p.m.** – Post has come!

**5:07 p.m.** – Post is _merde_, and there is no letter from Damn Jacques. There isn't even a Trashy Book Monthly for me to browse through in my misery. If I'm going to grow old single, I might as well have a good selection of smut.

**6:30 p.m.** – 131 pounds! ACK!

**Day Twenty-Nine of Free Independence**

**Sunday, February 14****th** ** – Valentine's Day**

**Coming Thisclose to Putting My Tongue in Jacques's Mouth**

**6:45 AM**

**6:45 a.m. **–He's here! He's finally here! JACQUES DEMONTMORENCY, LOVE OF MY LIFE, HAS ARRIVED. Michael is looking fairly appalled at this last sentence completely in capital letters. Do not have time to reassure him amid all this happiness.

**6:55 a.m. **– Let me explain the joyous news! I was sitting in the Great Hall with Michael, who was being sexy and marvelous, talking to me about the influence that the media has over the world. Renée, unfortunately, was sitting across from us, staring at her piece of lettuce with disdain. "But anyway," Michael was saying, "Happy Valentine's Day," as I beamed down at my Abs Diet Power Shake. "I was actually thinking—" I looked up just at that moment to see, over Michael's shoulder: JACQUES, THAT GORGEOUS BEING.

"Jacques!" screamed I, leaping up from the table and running to him as clichés go, with my hair streaming out behind me in slow motion no doubt. "Oh my God, I love you!" I squealed in surprise and delight. "Oh thank GOD for you, you dumb sexy creature, you!" I'm sure that at this point Michael was wondering who exactly Jacques was and wondering whether or not he should be incredibly worried. "Serious, I'm so happy, I'd do just about anything for you at this point," I smiled. I did hear a couple of Gryffindors yell "Take your top off!" but I simply ignored them in favor of doting unnecessarily on Jacques, my new favorite person.

"Hey you," said Jacques, in his own studly way, which caused several female heads to swivel around to stare at him being all… well… studly.

"I _totally_ thought you weren't going to come, but this—I believe in miracles," I grinned, coming so close to losing all my sense and just jumping up and down like a little kid, which is what I really felt like doing.

"Since you came along," said Jacques with a smile.

"You sexy thing," I replied, as we both walked back to my table. Have just realized Michael will probably think we're sleeping with each other. Oops.

**7:02 a.m.** – Must make sure Michael is fully aware that he has no reason to think Jacques and I are an item. Must write him a message:

**WE'RE NOT HAVING SEX.**

**7:03 a.m.** – Michael has just looked at me and mouthed, "We're not?" I am such a crappy communicator. "Me and Jacques," I mouth back, hoping he'll get the message, which he won't because I am a crappy communicator.

Grrr, Michael has just mouthed that he has no idea what I've just said, will just casually bring it up at dinner. "Hm, turkey's rather dry, just like my sex life, since Jacques's not doing me at all." Too forward? "Hey, could you send the gravy my way—I'm totally not getting any from Jacques."

**7:45 a.m. **– Well, I can't just bring up sex in the middle of class, so I'll just have to wait until lunch to assure Michael that Jacques is not my lover… he's just a guy that thinks I am the one… GOD, AMERICA GOT TO ME. HAHA: Michael, Jacques, Michael Jackson! Hee-hee. Okay. That's it, I swear.

**8:21 a.m. **– But the world is bound to get better now that Jacques is around. Jacques stops me from going completely crazy over such things, which reminds me that I must talk to him about my mother—that's much more important than the fact that we're not sleeping together.

**10:45 a.m. **– Am slowly starting to get as bananas as Mum despite Jacques's presence. I have showed Jacques Mum's letter and he was very infuriatingly calm and reasonable. (Has occurred to me that Michael may have wondered what Jacques was doing up in my room. V. bad.)

"Maybe your mother just had some kind of spiritual revelation or an epiphany or something," said Jacques. "It's entirely possible that she can be open to something new and not taking drugs, smoking Floo powder, _or_ crazy."

"But Jacques, she capitalizes letters in the middle of sentences and calls me Flurry-Pie and talks about how she misses me and about how dad misses me and about her feelings and she has emotions and—!"

"Do you want to have rollicking good sex with me?" asked Jacques quite seriously, interrupting me mid-rant, looking very grave and important.

"What?"

"Your mother may just be going through a phase in her life. Maybe she had a very repressed childhood and is only now beginning to express herself now that she has more room in her life. After all, Gabrielle is off at school and you are here, as is Renée, and she has time to herself. Now she has time to really take care of herself as opposed to constantly taking care of you and Renée and Gabrielle—hence the yoga and the Pilates. Now she has times to do all the things she may have really wanted to do all along, but never had time to."

"But we were going to have sex," I said.

"What?" asked Jacques, just as if he had no idea what on earth I was talking about or where I had gotten the idea from in the first place, when he so clearly did.

"You asked me if I would like to have rollicking good sex with you. I can't, of course, because I'm in a committed relationship with Michael and because I've already established that I'm not having rollicking good sex with you—not that I can have rollicking bad sex with you either—but this morning, I already told Michael I wasn't, so I can't just go back on that—"

"Fleur?" said Jacques.

"What?" I was rather put out at having been stopped in the middle of my explanation to Jacques, which I thought was rather good considering the fact that I was going rather batty inside and had no composure.

"I just said that to shut you up."

"Oh," I replied, being even more dazzlingly _articulée_ than ever. Jacques is so wickedly intelligent—and I take things so literally. Hm, **NTS – **Stop taking things so darn literally, or you'll never stop misunderstanding Jacques.

**11:05 a.m.** – Jacques is staying up in my room analyzing the letter as I'm sitting through Divination. I am resisting the temptation to seize that freakish crystal ball on that freakishly bright purple cradle and chuck the whole thing right at that batty old hag's head. I shouldn't, because, come to think of it, Professor Trelawney was never _that_ wicked to me. Besides the whole pebble incident, that is. And that time she made me come pick up tea leaves when I was explaining the sexiness potential of various names.

**11:15 a.m.** – I have not chucked the freakish crystal ball at Professor Trelawney's head, for I have decided that it is enough of a punishment to look that much like a bug.

**11:17 a.m.** – I am getting very upset. I have just realized that I am still fat even though I'm on this Abs Diet. _And_ I have no abs. Hold on while I produce this worthless piece of diet-y trash from my handbag.

**11:19 a.m.** – Yep, the book clearly stated that I should lose five to eight pounds in the first one to two weeks. Ahem, ahem, still grotesquely fat! I can't believe my mother bought this disgusting rip-off! Where did she even _get_ this disgusting rip-off? I'm too disgusted to even wonder why.

**11:45 a.m. **– I have checked my stomach again—there are still no abs there, and I still feel fat. Why is my stomach not flat? Hm, book says that indicator of healthiness can be found in BMI.

(Weight x 703) / (Height x Height)

(131 x 703) / (67 x 67)

My BMI is 21. Book says am not overweight, but could definitely afford to be hot, lean supermodel. Last half of that sentence **did not come from book**. Just in case you thought it did.

**12:00 NOON** – Am sitting across from that Wicked Witch, what's-her-face? RENÉE! That's right. Am sitting across from Renée reading the valentine that Wonderful (No longer Damn) Jacques sent me.

"Is that from your husband or your boyfriend?" she asks, picking at her no-carbs, no-fat granola bar, which I assume serves as lunch and dinner.

"I don't have a husband," I remark casually, wondering what the hell kind of crack my sister is on. After she admits her problem, I'm going to tell her all about the deviated septum you can get from smoking crack.

"Then what do you call Jacques?" she replies, looking ridiculously thin. I mean, how can you be that thin? My sister is tall—supermodel, dwarfing Tyra Banks all over the place tall: five-ten-and-a-half last I checked. Grrr—who's still five-seven over here? And worse than being so tall, I swear to G, she must be about 116 pounds! I am very surprised that my parents never put her on the "Gain Some Poundage, Stick Child" Diet.

"Jacques is my friend," I explain calmly, flipping to Valentine Number Two, which is from Michael.

"Right," Renée says sarcastically. "He criticizes you constantly, you fight like children, he always pays, he hates all your boyfriends, and you're not having sex. Sounds like a husband to me."

Absurdities. "If Jacques is my husband, then what is Michael?" I ask, suddenly intrigued at something my wicked sister is saying, no matter how ridiculous it may happen to be.

"Michael is your on-the-side lovah," says Renée as if I have just asked the single stupidest question in the world. She wickedly flips her hair and behind her some sick fifth year gapes.

Ok, I've set fire to his pants—he's gone now.

"Lovah?" I ask skeptically, watching as that fifth year tries frantically to extinguish his underwear in the hallway, and quite unsuccessfully, I might add.

Renée nods her head confidently, "LOVAH." I am now close to laughing out loud with pure condescension at the idiocy of this statement, which is quite obvious to Renée. "Fine—if Michael's not your lover, then Jacques _is_."

"Jacques is _not_ my lover!" I have said this a little too loudly and a couple of seventh years trickling by are giving me the eye. Of course, after that they see Renée and _really_ give _her_ the eye.

Renée has that "I know better than you, stop acting like you know what you're talking about" look on her face, which is quite disconcerting. "Fine, whatever you say—Michael Jackson said the same thing about Billie Jean, and we all know how that ended…"

"I thought you didn't give a crap about Muggle things," I said, "so how do you know about Michael Jackson?"

"Cha—who _doesn't_ know about Michael Jackson?" replied Renée, super-crazy sister-witch. She's getting up to leave, completely showing off her damned skinniness and her damned tallness. "She says Jacques is not her lover—'He's just a boy, who thinks that I am the one.' Which means the sex isn't that fun—"

"GET OUT!" I yell, but she jumps out of the way just before I can set fire to her too.

**1:05** **p.m.** – This is just brill! Très effing brill! It's just brilliant how now both Michael _and_ Renée think that Jacques and I are red-hot lovers. EW. Must talk to Michael after class is over.

Meanwhile, he's just like: "There is a reason all of you are required to take this class—you simply _must_ be able to protect _yourselves_, when there is no one around to protect you," and other blah. It's very hot, so I'm trying to act like I'm paying attention so he can get validation for his hotness. One thing I learned reading _Witches are from Mars, Wizards are Just Stupid_, is that men need constant validation of their sexiness. Where is that book anyway? I really could use learning what to do about inappropriate Lustifications occurring during a relationship with such a wizard.

**2:30 p.m.** – Was going to talk to Michael after his lecture, but _apparently_ Jacques got there first. This is bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. Decided, for sake of historical accuracy, to transcribe their entire conversation—mostly so I can look over it and see whether or not Michael has any reason to be all suspicious and angry and upset and hurt. Hold on while I imagine Michael being suspicious, angry, upset, and hurt.

That was so: Hmmm…

Okay, now to the transcription, which I was able to listen to while I was behind a column on my way back from my trip to the kitchens to get chocolate from the house-elves:

Jacques & Michael, the First Encounter: Episode One

Michael, casually, walking down the hall on the way to get coffee in the very, very empty Great Hall: "Hey."

Jacques, walking in the opposite direction, looking pissed. I mean, not drunk or anything—just really, really upset-looking. If he'd looked this apprehensive and concerned when he arrived, Renée would have started hitting on him by now. Jacques, walking in the opposite direction looking apprehensive and concerned: "Wait—I have something to ask you." At this point, I become concerned; Jacques is using the "Now, I Want You To Know, That If You've Been Doing Something You Know Will Upset Me, That You Can Tell Me At Any Time, Because I'll Be Okay With It. I'm Not Like a Regular Over-Protective Tutor—I'm A Cool Tutor" voice. Jacques, gravely: "What are your intentions?"

Michael, swiveling around in a very Michael-Jackson-in-the-cool-years way: "What?"

Jacques, looking more apprehensive and concerned: "What are your intentions towards Fleur?"

I will take a moment to describe to you what Jacques is wearing today, so you can accurately imagine him in your mind. He is wearing all black. He is wearing a black, long-sleeved shirt, but the sleeves are too long, so they're pushed up; and then he's wearing black jeans, which are baggy and faded (so they're more like dark gray); and he's got his black jacket slung over his shoulder like so. His hair is dark brown, so he's looking dark and brooding today, and currently reminds me of "Dean" from _Gilmore Girls_ before he spent forty days and forty nights in the forest being tempted by Satan, where he couldn't shave, bathe, or maintain any form of hygiene.

Michael, sizing up Jacques, who is sizing up Michael at the same time: "I'm… not sure." He says this suspiciously as he is trying to assess who is taller, him or Jacques—I know this because this is what Jacques does all the time. Michael is taller by a quarter-inch, which will piss Jacques off. Jacques is very upset that he is not six feet tall—five foot eleven and three-quarters. Michael is six feet exactly.

Jacques, realizing that Michael is six feet exactly, takes out little black book filled with secretive secrets and mutters: "_Unsure of relationship with Fleur—possibly has no intentions b/c does not intend to stick around._"

Michael, glaring: "Hey!"

Jacques, returning to book: "_Aggressive_."

Michael, calming down after hearing such a judgement passed upon himself: "Look, I don't know what your problem is, but if Fleur likes you, then I don't want to get into this with you."

Jacques: "_Passive__-aggressive_."

Michael: Hey—what the hell is this?

Jacques: "_Unrestrained use of profane language_. _Seems uninhibited by presence of headmaster in distance. Seemingly no respect for authority."_

Michael, quickly jerking around to see Dumbledore passing by, then turning back to hate on Jacques: "What's with that no—?"

Jacques, looking up from his dark, black, bleakness: "May I see some kind of identification? A license, perhaps?"

Michael, exasperated at Jacques's endless questioning: "Like what? A driver's license, a pilot's license, a gun license—"

Jacques: "_Expresses an interest in harming others—possible sadistic, violent tendencies_."

Michael, light-heartedly: "Oh, come on—it's not as if I go around shooting bunnies and lighting small children on fire—that's only on the weekends."

Jacques, quite seriously: "_Takes pleasure in the pain of others—frequently tortures small animals—has structured way of going about such depraved practices_."

Michael: "That was a joke."

Jacques, shaking his head in his "Hm, That Will Take Points Off Your Grade" kind of way: "_Has… crappy… sense of… humor…_"

Michael, now more pissed off than Jacques was in the first place, which is understandable as Jacques is practically provoking him: "My sense of humor is fine."

Jacques: "_Seems to live life in denial…_" Okay, at this point you are probably thinking that Jacques is an annoying, judgmental prat. I will not disagree with you. I must only say that Jacques has always been a sweet, funny, easy-going, easy-to-get-along-with, stand-up guy. Today, I'm sure his synapses are misfiring.

Michael, seeming to have realized something, and looking properly (and hotly) angry and vengeful—reminds me of the look on his face when he read Snape's dirty valentine. Anyway, Michael: "Well, what's going on between _you_ and Fleur?" Damn it, I knew this question would come up!

Jacques, dubiously, as if he is sensing something dodgy: "I could ask you the same thing."

Michael: "No, you really couldn't. I'm her boyfriend, now what are you?"

_Merde, merde, merde._ Jacques has a crap way of explaining things. Jacques: "I'm her friend."

Michael: "Do you think I'm stupid?"

DAMN IN A BUCKET OF TUNA. REALLY BAD SMELLING CRAPPY TUNA. This is one sick bucket of seafood, a rotten kettle of fish!

Jacques: "Do you want me to answer that?"

Ooh-Kay, Fleur must step in now!!!

**4:00 p.m.** – Have had good long talk with Jacques.

Numbers-

Have said "What the hell were you thinking?" 26 times.

Have said "What the hell is wrong with you?" 43 times.

Have kicked him in the shins twice.

Have used colorful language 104 times.

Have forbidden him to speak 31 times.

Have ordered him to apologize to Michael once.

Has apologized to Michael zero times.

Have asked God to smite me 446 times.

**4:15 p.m.** – Have loudly complained to Renée that Jacques is the world's curse. She has responded, "May the Lord smite me with it." EW.

**5:05 p.m. – **Well, now Michael hates Jacques's guts. This is fantabulous. Grrr, how can my two favorite guys hate each other??? This is just like "Nathan" and "Will" on _Will & Grace_. I will just have to explain to Michael that Jacques is the "Will" to my "Grace," and if he can't get along with him, then tough.

**6:00 p.m.** – Had a jolly old dinner with Michael, Renée, and Jacques! NOT. It was ridiculous—beyond ridiculous how badly Michael and Jacques get along with each other. You would think that given their common interests (being male, Y-chromosomes, me, etc.), they would find a foundation for a healthy and altogether nonviolent relationship. BUT instead war-like aggressive man-children.

In the middle of dinner, I was complaining to Jacques about the food. "I don't know how much protein this has—and I really don't think I've gotten all 128 grams of protein that the Abs Diet dictates that I should have. Should I run out and find peanut butter, or are you going to eat that?"

"Why are you on a diet? You're thin enough," says Jacques, as if I have just said the stupidest thing in the entire world, completely ignoring my peanut butter query.

"Way too skinny," agrees Michael quickly.

"Emaciated even," Jacques says, looking up.

"One could go so far as to say you need to gain some weight," says Michael, who is not looking at me, but rather, looking directly at Jacques.

"You could afford to put on a few pounds," concurs Jacques, nodding his head emphatically.

"That's what I _just_ said," says Michael in that "grrr" fierce kind of way.

"_No_, what _you_ said is that she needed to gain weight. What _I_ said was that she could afford to put on a few pounds. That's entirely different phrasing," said Jacques in that infuriating "You've Just Conjugated that Verb Incorrectly" voice.

"Now, who's being aggressive?" says Michael.

"_You_ are."

Michael starts to get up, and I am quite sure that he is about to punch Jacques's lights out. I think that most of the people in the hall realized this as well, because there were lots of necks craning over to see what was happening.

I start to laugh unconvincingly. "Now, if you can't play nice you can't play together," I say, stuffing a tart in my mouth. "Look, I'm eating—now you're both happy. Oh come on, don't make me turn this car around or we're not stopping for ice cream."

"Fine," says Michael sulkily as Jacques says the same in an equally sulky voice. I swear to G, in five seconds they're both going to go, "Jinx—you owe me a soda!"

A couple minutes later, I actually attempted to start a conversation amongst all of us. "So, why don't we go around in a circle and say nice things about one another—Jacques, why don't you go first? Say something nice about Michael."

Jacques looked so very _venère _at that moment. "He has good taste in girlfriends at least." I must admit this was very sweet, but it was kind of ruined by that look on his face.

I looked at Michael, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "And he has a good taste in friends." You could just tell how much it was paining him to say this.

"There, that wasn't so hard was it?" I said, far more exasperated than relieved. "I swear," I said, thinking of _Witches are from Mars, Wizards are Just Stupid_, "men are such children."

Jacques smiled. "You're only mad because we're not having rollicking good sex."

Michael took this very much the wrong way. He called Jacques some very inappropriate names.

After which Jacques proceeded to tell Michael to do something to his mother that I cannot even print here.

HAPPY EFFING VALENTINE'S DAY.


	5. The Screw Me Shoes of Doom

**Further ****Further**** February: **Screw-Me Shoes of Doom

* * *

**Day Thirty of Free Independence**

**Monday, February 15****th**

**My room**

**4:12 AM**

**4:12 a.m.** – Last night's event have awakened me at an ungodly hour, which only adds to my distress. Still in state of shock. Michael called Jacques a _WHAT?_ Jacques told Michael to do _WHAT?_ The only good thing that came out of dinner last night was the validation of my best friend and my boyfriend telling me how damn skinny I am.

But what I simply cannot comprehend is how this could happen when Jacques is such a freakishly nice person! He's so non-confrontational! I simply don't—

**4:20 a.m.** – Weirdness in a bucket, Jacques is here. Has he no respect for the sanctity of my sleep? (Whether or not was actually sleeping, irrelevant.) Hm… hope Michael never finds out about this. It may not sit well with him that Jacques was up in my room at 4 o'clock in the morning. He has come to apologize.

"Well, don't apologize to me—apologize to Michael," I say, _parce que_ no matter how sweet and adorable and wonderful Jacques is to _me_, he was _not_ very nice to Michael last night. Obviously cannot promote one code of conduct with me and different code with everyone else, as seems like beginnings of weird codependent / potentially abusive, obsessed relationship. Like _oh, but he's really great when we're alone_—sounds suspicious. Clearly cannot condone, even if true.

"Fleur…" Jacques says, kneeling by my nightstand. He is _awful_. I _do not _forgive him, despite kneeling.

Oh, DAMN HIM, he's using the sweet, adorable, "forgive me, please…" so darn cute voice! DO NOT FORGIVE HIM, FLEUR. _Je dois être forte! Je dois être forte!_

"I'm not forgiving you," I say. _Bien fait, _Fleur!

**5:01 a.m.** – I forgave him. I mean, I couldn't help it—he was being all rational and sweet, and everything he said made sense and… well, I was strong for a _little_ bit, at least! It was the Crestfallen Disappointment face that did it, as he rose from my bedside, crushed-looking. _Awful_. Hate him. Ahem, so obviously forgive him.

He says he simply doesn't know what came over him, and that he knows he embarrassed me and feels like utter crap about it, and that the only reason he overreacted was because he's possessive and a huge control-freak and that I simply must forgive him for his sudden bout of madness or else what's the point of him being here. Who can argue with that?

**6:14 a.m. **– It has just occurred to me that Michael will be really pissed off when he finds out that I have forgiven Jacques. Seeing as how he would like very much to smash Jacques into tiny, bite-sized pieces, but whatever.

**7:23 a.m.** – I don't get men. I just don't get them. They're on, they're off, they're up, they're down—they're freaking roller-coasters, that's what men are.

Breakfast today was so messed up. So, I sit down at the table expecting another full-out row, complete with violence and profanity, and yet Jacques and Michael are already sitting there, _talking to each other_. "Blah, blah, Viktor Krum, blah, blah, Chudley Cannons, blah, blah, Quidditch, Quidditch, Quidditch…" said Michael, to which Jacques responded with a variation of the same.

"Krum's offense has been kind off all season," said Michael, looking very thoughtful and serious as he made incomprehensible hand gestures, as he had been talking about some freakish play called the Brunei Twist or whatever.

"New girlfriend, that's it," said Jacques gravely, as Michael nodded his head in comprehension, agreeing wholeheartedly.

"Girlfriends will do that to you," he said.

Enter me: "AHEM."

"Hey, Fleur," they said simultaneously, like scary twins or brothers or bestest, bestest friends..

"What's going on here?" asked I suspiciously, because there could not be any logical for their sudden cooperation with each other, other than some kind of conspiracy or body-snatchers or something. Polyjuice, I swear. It's like Renée suddenly turning around and being really nice to me—and not just fake-nice, but honestly truly caring about my wellbeing, knitting me sweaters and taking me shopping. Ooh, shudder.

"We were just discussing the Brunswig Twist," said Jacques, at which several fifth year girls looked over and giggled. Ew, ew, ew.

"Well, that's odd," I said, smiling as if doing so were the only thing that would keep them from attacking each other, "because I could have sworn yesterday, you wanted to modulate each other."

"I think the word you're looking for is 'mutilate,'" said Jacques, being the obnoxious snot that is always in there, but being obnoxious and snotty in a sweet, "I'm smiling, so it's okay," way. _Douche_.

"You're an insufferable prat, you know that?" I said—smiling so it's okay. I pulled out a chair and situated myself cautiously across from them, wary of disrupting the strange balance that had suddenly arisen. "Seriously, I don't get it. Yesterday you were like that," I said, miming an explosion with my hands, "and today, you're like… _this_, so what happened? Don't tell me guys just turn on and off like a light bulb—"

"Actually—" Michael started to say.

"Oh my God, do not even go there."

Hm, where did it say in _Witches are from Mars_ that men were like light bulbs, because I swear, I do not remember that chapter.

**8:05 a.m. **– I finally found the section about all the different things men are like.

_**Men, the Metaphors**_

_Men are like many things: blenders, microwaves, fire detectors, pencil sharpeners, DVDs, ankle weights, scales, shoes, wildfires, tissue paper, balloons, and toilet stalls._

_Men are like fire detectors—once you set them off, they won't shut up._

_Men are like DVDs—always cursing right when your parents come in the room._

_Men are like tissue paper—reusable, disposable, and soft._

_Men are like balloons—one blow and it's a party._

_But more than anything, men are like toilet stalls—all the good ones are taken and all the rest of them are full of crap._

See, _nothing_ about light bulbs!

**10:04 a.m.** – Men are just stupid. If there's anything I've learned from extensive study of _Witches are from Mars_, it's that men are stupid. Jacques has just (very stupidly) rushed into this room, in the middle of Charms, and come up to me and looked me in the eye—and I mean like seriously in the eye, like "so-close-I-can-smell-that-Crest-fresh-breath" close—and just said, "Hey, Fleur, I think I know what's going on—you know, with the Feng Shui and everything…" He pauses to grin at me, with a Crest-bright smile to match that Crest-fresh-breath I have been experiencing. "Just thought you might want to know," he says. Then he makes his way to the door, is about to exit, turns around, leans against it, very James Dean leaning on whatever James Dean leans on—cars, motorcycles, women, whatever—and says, "What, no smile?" shakes his head, and walks away.

All the girls were sitting dumbly, quills in their mouths, staring at the door as if they were wondering when he would return. You could hear the silence just echoing, bouncing from wall to wall to wall, Flitwick unawares.

Horrifyingly enough, there is no denying it: Jacques is hot-in-a-bucket hot. This is why Gabrielle is obsessed with him and Renée is denying that she is obsessed with him. When you are hot, it is like the same thing as owning a gun—_you must use your weapon wisely._ What Jacques has just done is like taking out a machine gun and shooting everyone in this class down. Thank God, he only _grazed_ me.

Jacques should know that he can't just go unleashing his hotness all over the place! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Doesn't he know how inconvenient this will be now—with the giggle-giggles everywhere, and the crazy fan-girls he will have now, following him around, hiding behind bushes and other such to get a nice good look at his rear end? I will never get a word in without having to pause every five or six seconds to barf discreetly. Damn you, Jacques, you Dumb Sexy Creature.

At least they will have Michael and Harry to distract them.

Wait a minute:

!

**12 NOON – **I was so right—there is a group of Ravenclaw girls over there, looking over at Jacques and then quickly looking away. Amateurs—they should know that I can see them, hiding behind their books as if that way I won't know. God, I thought Rowena Ravenclaw took the smartest!

"Caught up! Caught up! I don't know what it is, but it seems she got me twisted! Oh, caught up! Caught up! I'm losing control! This girl got her hold on me…"

Sorry, the Usher took control.

Damnation, I wish I had my iPod right now… and I wish those Ravenclaws would go to buggery.

**1:45 p.m.** – Jacques, by this time, has become the new hottest thing ever. That took what, four hours? Idiot. He's "like, so scorching hot, I'm like sweating like right now!" The moment I heard this, I seriously considered shrieking "Ten points from Hufflepuff for _hormonal misconduct!" _Dear God, this is rather odd, actually, because Jacques has never been the new hottest thing ever.

I've known Jacques since before he was my English tutor; he moved to Bordeaux from England (where he moved when he was, like, 4) when I was 8 years old, a couple houses down. This was in the supra-outcast Fricking Ugly Duckling phase of my life, when I was drastically _impopulaire_ and nobody liked me except for Dad—Mom hated everyone because Gabrielle was in her Fearsome Fives. So, when Jacques showed up, I latched onto him like a crazy leech, which was fortunate because he gets me. I'm sure, at the time, my delusions were charming. When I was fourteen and three-quarters, he moved back to England for a year, which sucked more than anything, and I was stuck with Gabrielle all summer, entertaining the truly annoying eleven-year-old that she _knows_ she was, as Renée, sixteen, partied her way through life being that slutty Social _Papillon_ that she was even then. My fifteenth summer was such _merde_ I don't even want to _discuss it_. Anyway, after that summer was over, I went back to Pretty Sticks for my 4th year. Weirdest school year of my life definitely applies—it was as if the entire male population had just suddenly noticed I existed. To tell the truth, while it was flattering, it was also scary as hell. Dates flew by like… well, butterflies.

So, when I was fifteen and a half, Jacques moved back to Bordeaux. To review, when Jacques left the airport to go to England, he was a scraggly, rail-thin, brown-haired mess that looked like he had just had a fight with a rabid monkey—and the rabid monkey won. When Jacques came back, he was _no mess. _I kind of just stared at him when he knocked on my door. Until: "Hey, Fleur, can I come in? It's kind of cold out here."

I think I kind of got over Jacques's looking like sex after a couple of months, after getting used to him. After all, newly emerged hotness does little to hide the idiot best friend that lies underneath. Of course, Gabrielle never _really _got over it, because he came back when she was turning thirteen and had just hit puberty (otherwise known as: "My, my, there are a bunch of hot guys I never noticed before!"), and unfortunately for her, Jacques never got less attractive. Renée was just like: "My, that's hot jailbait Fleur has got there," but she moved on to go shag her boyfriend at the time: Franz.

Can you imagine shagging a guy named Franz?

But anyway, that's the skinny on Jacques and the odd chemical effect he has on the female species and those hot gay guys who live across the street. While I heart Jacques so effing much, his oddly effective pheromones drive most relationships I attempt to have into deep, deep ditches. "Yeah, right, he's your '_friend_,' and you've been getting 'tutoring' every Tuesday, I _totally _'believe' you." "I can't make it, I've got tutoring with Jacques," sounds like a really bad way to get out of a date, which is what every boyfriend Aaron to Zachary has thought.

DAMNITY DAMN, if this happens with Michael I will dismember Jacques so badly that he won't be hot anymore!

**4:07 p.m. **– I've just weighed myself. 125! Joy in a bucket full of escargot—I just poked my stomach and I think it _hurt_. I mean, it hurt my_ finger_, not my stomach, because that would just be stupid.

**4:30 p.m.** – I'm going to eat tuna to give further kick to my metabolism.

**7:02 p.m.** – Ate tuna, feel fat. Hm… I hope I haven't fallen off the Abs Diet already—I can already tell that I have abs, but they're under the flab! But how do I get them out from under the flab? Buckets of damnation! _Le slip de diable! _DEVIL'S UNDERPANTS!

**7:05 p.m. – **

Affolé d'Affaires Courant:

Name: Fleur Delacour (still).

Height: five foot seven and a recently acquired ½! Thank you Abs Diet!

Weight: 125! I am on my way to being an emaciated supermodel! Malnourished under-18 BMI skinny girl, here we come!

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Hm, today is a bland day for lusting.

Cyber-boyfriend: Heart him, but he's stupid for being such a light bulb!

Favorite Class SF: Charms, no duh.

Least SF: Trelawney.

Pilates Minutes: 13

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 39

Jude-thinking Minutes: 43

HP-thinking Minutes: 18

HG glares: 2

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 456 (perhaps eye infection?)

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 3 to 1.

Overall Day: Today, I'm feeling oddly thoughtful… maybe the disease will go away tomorrow.

**Day Thirty-Five of Free Independence**

**Saturday, February 20****th**

**Sick of Living**

**8:09 AM**

**8:09 a.m.** – I am really bananas from feeling like such crap.

**10:00 a.m.** – Crap isn't the word. MERDE. MIERDA. SHISA. KUSO. Buckets of damnation.

**10:45 a.m.** – I am terribly sick. Jacques has conjured me chicken soup and Michael has just popped in to make sure I have not died yet. Have spent entire day in bed finishing up "Dirty Girls Wear Pink," which has reached the point where Violette and Henri are somehow stuck in locked office together. Tension, tension, tension.

Sniffle.

**12 NOON** – Jacques has come and visited me and been very kind about my complaining about my stomach for five minutes. God love him.

**1:02 p.m. – **God, relieve me of this pain. I can't keep anything down, and I need six meals! SIX! Not eating enough might throw me off of this diet and I might gain those six pounds back! ACK.

**2:34** **p.m.** – Jacques is so considerate. He has just sent me a meal complete with Abs Diet Power foods! Yay! Turkey sandwich with cheese! Tas in the T in ABS DIET POWER and Dairy is the D in ABS DIET POWER! With Raspberries as the R, and a little bowl of "instant oatmeal" and then… God Love Him… it's sprinkled with Extra Strength Whey Powder. _GOD_.

I don't care if I'm taken. I want to snog him senseless!

**5:00 p.m.** – Ack, my stomach is pooching out like I've consumed a soccer ball. I feel so fat and irritable and unattractive. Is this what being pregnant is like? _Never getting knocked up._

**5:30 p.m.** – I feel bad for my mom now. She had to go through nine months of this _merde_. No wonder she was always mad at us—I'd be mad at anything that forced its way out of my—

Michael's here!

**6:17 p.m.** – I'm sick, but Michael still gave me a fantastic get-well kiss. Now, _that's_ an emotional connection.

**Day Thirty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Monday, February 22****nd**

**Still Sick, But With the Will to Live**

**10:44 AM**

**10:44 a.m.** – I am watching _Saved_ right now, because Jacques has gone out and gotten it for me. I don't know how the hell he did it, but somehow he got it, perhaps smuggled it under cover of night, _ou quelque chose _heroic like that. Where can you get Muggle DVDs in the wizarding world?

**10:45 a.m.** – I have just asked him; he says that he went down to a store called Closet Muggle in Hogsmeade where they sell Muggle things for wizards with fetishes, or loonies, or those who have been through the Mugglefication process and need to step out of it _gradually_. The good thing is that most of the things they sell there are modified so that they don't malfunction around magic.

**11:23 a.m.** – Am now absently wondering if I am preggers. No… doesn't make sense… haven't had sex yet…

**11:25 a.m.** – Then again, I could be like the Virgin Mary… Jacques is now looking at me like I'm a crazy bird. "_Are_ you pregnant?" My God, men are so stupid.

**11:40 a.m.** – This movie is making the both of us crazy. It has infiltrated our minds and I swear, we will be shrieking about how we're _filled_ with Christ's love all week.

"Are you sure you're not pregnant?" asks Jacques, staring with concern at my food baby, perhaps considering giving it up for adoption.

"_Yes_."

Jacques smiles, looking absolutely infuriating. "Are you sure you haven't been having unprotected sex trying to save souls—"

"Shut up!"

**12:30 p.m. **– Yay! Best movie ever! "Are you down with G-O-D?" Yes, Pastor Skip! I am _down_ with G-O-D! Even Jacques is getting jiggy with Jesus! We are _chilling_ with Christ.

**1:46 p.m.** – Jacques and I are now just sitting in my room thinking about our souls. I mean, are _we_ going to be saved? Right now, I'm thinking that we're both going to burn in hell. I figure that I've always been "backsliding into the fires of eternal damnation" and such, but Jacques was heading to heaven up until that thing with Michael's mother. Jesus was so not down with that.

"What have you done wrong?" asks Jacques. We're both just sitting on my bed looking out the window. Still snowing.

"Me? Tons of things. I curse a lot, I envy a lot, and I lust a lot—badabing badaboom: hell," I explained. Also: I take the Lord's name in vain and I did kind of tell him to go sod himself. And I'm continually blowing off his son… I am so down with damnation.

**3:00 p.m. **– Ooh, made the mistake of wandering outside of my room. Found Michael talking to Renée. Didn't get to see any more before Jacques realized what I was seeing and forcibly dragged me back into my room.

**3:45 p.m.** – Jacques is now telling me to chill. I haven't even done anything. I was just wondering how long it would take Renée to seduce Michael into leaving me for her. That's all.

**5:21 p.m.** – Jacques is leaving, but he's promised to come back and bring me dinner. I am simply too befuddled and upset to do anything but nod. I was lulled into a false sense of security thinking that Renée hadn't decided to sink her claws into Michael. Damn. I'm going to console myself by starting Halcius Pottotius, Book 2. What's that called again? _Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed? _Delightful.

**6:03 p.m.** – Dinner was good and very Abs Diet, for which I thank Jacques, but am still very much down in the dumps. Why did I think Renée would leave Michael alone?

**Day Thirty-Nine of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, February 24****th**

**Up Again**

**6:21 AM**

**6:21 a.m.** – I'm up again! I feel much better now… and I can devote more time to preventing the theft of Michael Turner. Grrr, I'm at breakfast and Renée is just being infuriating! I don't understand. She hit on him the first day and for twenty-two days she was quiet, she didn't do a thing, and _now_ suddenly, she's on the attack again! What the ruddy hell is going on? New, silent missle approach?

**8:57 a.m. **– Quite a little problem has presented itself in the form of Renée Delacour. On top of this, there is the problem of figuring out how to fix my mother, which Jacques claims to have found the solution for (and is simply not telling me). So, as the Mom situation is presumably under control, we must focus on the far more pressing issue: Renée.

**14 Ways to Solve the Problem of Renée Delacour**

1) Drop a CD player into the tub while she's taking a bath.

2) Put paint thinner in her coffee.

3) Shove her into the lake when no one's looking, leave Alfie, the Giant Squid to deal with her.

4) Trick her into drinking a Polyjuice potion that will have her looking like one of the targets of the Wizard Mafia.

5) Strychnine in her granola bar.

6) Hot-wire a car and run her over with it.

7) Cast a spell of celibacy over her.

8) Cast a spell of lesbianism over her.

9) Cast a spell of devout Christendom over her.

10) Shove her head in a car door and shut it over and over and over again.

11) Shove an umbrella down her throat. And then open it.

12) Push her down an elevator shaft.

13) Take her on a trip to Italy and, over the Alps, push her out the Emergency Exit.

14) Lock her in a room with "Hilary Faye." She _will_ go crazy.

I'm thinking car door right about now.

She's flirting with Michael outside the Charms room, laughing like a schoolgirl. I hope she chokes on her own vomit.

**11:04 a.m.** – I've something to tell you that will make you, like me, stop worrying about the Renée Problem so much. While I cannot let my guard down, I can relax a bit I think. Shall I start at the beginning?

Well, for starters, I was outside in Care of Magical Creatures, not paying attention to the lesson, but rather thinking of more ways to dispose of that _tarte_. Of course, completely unexpectedly, Michael dashed onto the scene looking _ridiculously_ _attrayant_ as always and came up to me. I smiled like an idiot at him as seven or eight Hufflepuff girls turned around to covet my boyfriend. "Hey," he said, as I continued smiling like a maniac. One would think the _smile dumbly_ phase would pass once dating has commenced, hm?

"Hey," I replied. I'm so damn _articulée_ around Michael, don't you think?

"Fleur, I've been meaning to talk to you about something," he said. "I've just discovered something, and I can't lie to you any longer. There's something between your sister and I, and I must pursue it, or else… I don't know what I'll do without her, Fleur. She's beautiful and clever, and you… you just can't compare to her. Goodbye, Fleur."

No, he totally didn't say that.

"Fleur, I've been meaning to talk to you about something. I mean, we've been doing the whole online thing, but you're here now, and so… um," he paused, shuffling his feet. "I was going to ask you on Valentine's Day, but… Anyway, I was wondering, do you think that on Friday, I don't know, you might like to go out somewhere or… stay in… or something?"

He looked so sweet just then! If you could have seen him! Of _course_ I said yes to him—and got dirty glares from those same obsessive Hufflepuffs.

Yay! Actual date with Michael! Finally!

**12 NOON** – Sitting with Jacques, discussing this new event in my life. Jacques seems eager to talk about Mum, but I've insisted on discussing this first, _parce que_ _je suis trop, trop_ excited to talk about anything else.

"Oh damn, I've got a date to prepare for. What in Merlin's name am I supposed to wear?"

Jacques just rolls his eyes, being flippant and uncaring in that way that he does, which I am far too used to by now. He's like this about each and every one of my boyfriends—"Michael Who?" But that's just Jacques.

"Oh come on, Fleur," Jacques says. "It's one date—Michael won't give a crap what you're wearing—if he didn't think you were hot, why would he ask you out in the first place? If you look too amazing, you'll raise his standards and he'll expect you to be fantastic looking all the time. Be yourself."

Ignoring all of the compliments and backhanded compliments in there, which cancel each other out.

Whatever—men know nothing. I continue musing. "A dress would be too formal… but then, jeans would be too casual…" I say dreamily, wondering.

"Fleur, Michael is just like all your other boyfriends," Jacques says, downing a glass of orange juice.

"All my other boyfriends were assholes," I reply. It's too true—it's almost as if I am a jerk magnet, attracting only the worst of the dating world. And then, when they reveal their true colors, usually in the form of premature horizontal advances, they must be dumped. Scum, all of them.

"You got that right," Jacques agrees.

**12:56 p.m.** – The more I think about it, the more I see it: I only date jerks. Jacques has just responded: "Yes you do." I have decided that even if Michael and I do break up, I will try my very best to avoid big-headed slimy prats from now on.

**2:49 p.m.** – I have just had a very… interesting conversation with Jacques about my boyfriends. He made the statement: "You always date jerks, break it off, and then you're in a state for a month, and go through one of your _phases_."

"I don't have 'phases,'" I reply, because it's absolutely true. I'm a completely rational and consistent person, and men are unobservant, ignorant idiots, so why should I listen to a word one of _them_ has to say? _Witches are from Mars_ all the way. Air karate chop!

"Oh yes you do," Jacques said matter-of-factly. "Like in Seventh year when you dated that ass Fernando, and after like three months, in all his sexual frustration—" I make a face at Jacques, because _as if that was my fault, _"he ended up shagging Nanette du Loire in the Dungeons over Christmas Break. You were so pissed off, I remember, and you went into your Jet phase for about two months."

"Are you implying that I was a cold hard bitch?" I asked, alarmed, looking at Jacques as if he had just told me sea slugs were tracking through my hair and were about to enter my ear canal.

"You thought you were," Jacques laughed, looking at me as if I were the single funniest movie he had ever had the pleasure to watch. "It's like your 'sex appeal is a weapon' theory," he said, sitting down on my bed, "you went around seeing how many people you could seriously injure just to piss him off. The funny thing was that you didn't care how much you got off on it, because you hated everything."

"Oh, I remember that—when I went to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Cup," I said, finally seeing what he was talking about. Dear God, I was a pissy mess then. "I hated this dank stupid castle, I hated the other champions—_God_, I hated Fernando—the only effing good thing about that effing tournament was Harry Potter—"

"Really now?" said Jacques, grinning, and I suddenly knew that I had said too much.

"Come off it, Jacques," I said instantly, trying to backtrack, though I already knew that he'd have a field day with what I'd just said.

"So he was the _only_ good thing about the school? Interesting… What about now? Is Harry Potter the _only_ good thing about this school now?"

Damn, damn, damn. "No, you idiot, Harry Potter isn't the only good thing around—there's you, of course, and Michael, and Orlando Boom, and Jude Law—Damn it, Jacques, you make everything such a big deal. I just fancied him for a bit, you know, flirted with the _idea_—just to have a go at Fernando, I swear."

"Right… sure," said Jacques smiling, as he got up off my bed and hung around by the door, his hand on the knob, ready to leave, "I believe you."

**5:05 p.m.** – I've just weighed myself: 124 lbs. Yay, Abs Diet!

**6:21 p.m. – **I've completely forgotten about my date with Michael—how could I be so stupid? What am I going to wear? _C'est comme s'il n'y a rien dans mon armoire! Merde dans un seau !_

Bah, I'll figure it out tomorrow.

**Day Forty-One of Free Independence**

**Friday, February 26****th**

**Losing It, Cannot Go to Class**

**7:34 AM**

**7:34 a.m.** – DON'T KNOW WHAT TO WEAR!

**8:45 a.m.** – I am going to be out in Hogsmeade with Michael, having our very first date, sit-down face-to-face date, unshielded by the glow of a computer screen, in approximately eleven hours, and I have no fricking clue what to wear! Jeans: no, dress: no, so there ought to be something in between! Pretty shirt, jeans, and heels?

BUT WHAT SHIRT, JEANS, AND HEELS?

**10:05 a.m.** – Calm, poised. Have decided that I will wear my blue sort of ruffled shirt (fairly dressy), low-riders, and my slingbacks. Yes. Now I can exhale.

**12 NOON **– Hm. Low-riders too slutty for a first date? Maybe could counter-balance with more modest shirt, something down right demure. The white one with the dramatic sleeves—but perhaps too nun-like, do not want to encourage idea of inviolable purity. Maybe the pink shirt with stripes instead? No, too casual! GRRR…

**1:34 p.m.** – 6 hours and 11 minutes, damn it all! Red shirt's much prettier and I look much thinner, but awfully low-cut, but then… grrr… what about the blue one? GAH. Jacques is no help in this department. Damn him for being born male! Didn't even have the courtesy to be gay. _Putain de merde._

**2:01 p.m.** – Back in the room, in severe emotional crisis. "Which one?" I ask, holding up the blue shirt and pink shirt and balancing the red shirt on my foot.

"Yes," Jacques says, sounding confused.

"Yes? That's not an answer—pick one!" Being under stress, I am understandably very irritable at the present time, and Jacques not answering my clothing queries directly will only serve to further agitate me.

"Um, the pink one," he says.

"The pink one? I can't wear this shirt with those shoes, Jacques—a _two_ year old could see that!" I screech, in the depths of turmoil by this time and taking out all of my untapped, completely unrestrained frustration upon poor, unfortunate Jacques, who, as usual, is just in the wrong place at entirely the wrong time.

"Then… then go find a two-year-old!" replies Jacques, just as stressed out as I am.

Hm… a two-year-old would pick the red one.

**4:56 p.m.** – Red one, blue one, red one, blue one? Feel like Dr. Suess. Maybe blue is too sad and mellow for my personality—maybe I should be more enrapturing and outgoing and seductive—so red, then? My God—why is this so hard?

**6:03 p.m.** – I have exactly one hour and 42 minutes!!! Fine then, I'm picking the red one and that's it— no going back—it's the red one.

But the blue one is so much _nicer_ than the red one—it's obvious that the blue one is fancier, so much more appropriate—but then the red one is so much _prettier_ and more _comfortable_ and didn't Jacques tell me to be myself and wouldn't that mean being comfortable? But what if the laws of dating state that I am simply prohibited from being that comfortable, as if I might as well be sitting at home on the couch watching the telly?

**7:14 p.m.** – Am all ready to go, putting on shoes now.I finally have decided that I look absolutely perfect for tonight's outing. Nothing can turn me back, sally forth!

Damnation, Renée's just come in, in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

"Oh, _God_, Fleur—you're not wearing _those_ are you?" she asks, pointing her smoke ash, disgusted, at my feet.

"What's wrong with them?" I ask, suddenly worried. I know that I should never, ever, under any circumstances listen to my sister when I think everything's okay, but I was paralyzed, looking from her to my feet, wondering what on earth had made her say those horrible words.

She laughs, all haughty derision. "You can't wear those on your first date," Renée says, in that same voice Regina George uses in _Mean Girls_—"_Damn, you are so lucky you have us to guide you_." She tilts her head at me, like a silly baby with a bucket on its head, playing with the pots and pans. She sighs."Oh Fleur, what kind of slut wears Screw-Me Shoes on her first date?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh come on, Fleur—don't act so innocent. The only reason any girl would wear shoes like that, would be if she wanted to get laid. So, if you were counting on getting screwed tonight, go ahead, wear those shoes—but if I were you, I'd take them off and try something else. Don't want the new boyfriend thinking we're all shoes and no action."

I just stared at her. "These are not… these shoes are…"

She patted me on the head, "They're Screw-Me Shoes, Fleur—just accept it." She walked across my room, took _Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed_ off my nightstand, plopped down on my bed, and started reading.

**10:00 p.m.** – Back from date. Michael Turner rocks my socks.

And my shoes too.


	6. March: No, I Will NOT Be Your Sexcretary...

**March: **No, I Will _Not_ Be Your Sexcretary!

* * *

**Day Forty-Four of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 1****st**

**At Breakfast**

**6:33 AM**

**6:33 a.m. – **Hmmm… feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Spent whole of weekend in bed reliving date… Did not even make the effort to move.

"I had a really good date with Michael on Friday," I say dreamily, as Jacques looks at me as if my hair has just turned green and is growing tentacles.

"Really?"

"_Really_," I reply, thinking of it… Michael is so much better than Fernando. I mean, Fernando was gorgeous and all, but he was a total sleaze. I really should have guessed the first time that I saw him and Claudette chatting it up at the Annual Beauxbatons Winter Formal that he was a total man-slut. But I kept going out with him because he was gorgeous and charming and because it pissed Renée off—Fernando was way more gorgeous than Franz.

**6:40 a.m. – **Jacques has just asked me the single oddest question. I was just thinking about the way Michael said "hey" on Friday when Jacques just says, out of the blue, "Did you make out with him?"

What the hell kind of question is that, is what I want to know. So that's exactly what I said. "What the hell kind of question is that?"

Jacques looked uncomfortable, you know, as I was boring little holes in him with my eyes, so it took him a while to respond before I shut off my lasers. "I don't know—did you guys, you know… I just wanted to be sure of his—"

"His_ intentions_, I know," I finished for him. Jacques can be so predictable; sweet and wonderful and endlessly helpful, yes, but altogether _too_ predictable.

"What? It can't hurt for at least _one_ of us to be sure what you're getting into," sputtered Jacques. This is what sucks about having a best friend who is this clever and talented: he is always being practical. I mean, sure, practical counts for something when the evil super-villain has you tied up in his lair up against your chairs, which are bolted to the ground, and there is nothing within a 30 foot radius of the both of you, and all you have is some chewing gum and lighter fluid. But when all you want to do is think about your date without any hassle, then practical means diddly-squat and is just plain annoying.

"What does what I'm getting myself into with Michael have to do with what we did last night?" The answer, by the way, is yes—yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—I did get kissed by the fantastic Michael Turner, seriously high-level making out, and it was (as would be expected) fantastic and romantic and sweet.

"It has everything to do with it—how else am I supposed to know his intentions?" said Jacques tensely. I swear, Jacques needs some serious acupuncture—my friend Janine from 6th year was all tense and uptight right before exams, but then she went to Switzerland for, like, a week and got acupuncture from this freaky Chinese guy and then, for exams, she was so calm and collected that she passed every single one with honors.

"Well, the answer is yes," I said happily. You could just tell Jacques was going to have some kind of hoity-toity "practical" reason why what I had just told him was absolutely wrong. Jacques had that furious animal that's been kept up in his pen too long look and he was just looking at me like I'd told him I was going to give up my education, screw English, and become a stripper.

Jacques' eyes bulge. "ON THE FIRST DATE?" I really felt like asking Jacques if he needed a megaphone or if he thought he'd said it loud enough.

"Trust me," I said, buttering my toast (even though the toast wasn't whole wheat and butter is like a load of pure fat), "he was a perfect gentleman about it."

"And you let him?" asked Jacques irritably, as if, once again, he was trying to talk me out of throwing away my education and becoming a stripper. It's not as if he _pounced _on me, and I responded with _All righty then, force your tongue on me_. "You just let him kiss you—not just kiss, make out with you—on the first date?"

Okay—the truth is: not even my father acts like this. It's rather obvious that my mother never acted like this, because she never cared who I was dating and why. My father was always just like, "Have a nice time honey, don't get back too late," on my way out the door. _Nobody_ ever gets this frigid over my love life except Jacques _right now_. Seriously: nobody gives a crap.

"It's not like we were doing under the table," I said, disregarding the look of utter disgust on Jacques's face. I am beginning to think that Jacques has a very low opinion of me. Maybe he _wouldn't_ be surprised if I told him I was going to throw away my education and become a stripper. "I told you already," I said, wondering if I could perform an exorcism on Jacques and make him a believer, "Michael was a perfect gentleman the entire time."

"How could he have been a gentleman and still have the audacity to try to make out with you on the first date?" asked Jacques, completely befuddled, like Einstein's theory of relativity had just been disproved or something. _Ridiculous_. Was not even real "first" date, as we already mostly know each other, and have been talking forever, so obviously purpose of date was not further talking—_ridiculous._ Also, as if Jacques thinks we have not kissed before, though obviously didn't tell him about Mr. Turner's Office situation.

"Well, you'd know if I told you about my date, but I'm not _going_ to tell you about my date, so I guess you'll never know," I said, picking up my things and getting ready to leave. Jacques is going to drive himself absolutely batty about this one—I can already tell.

**9:30 a.m.** – Even if I'm not disclosing the intimate details of my date with Michael to Jacques, I might as well write them down so I can relive them over and over and over again at will.

My Date with Michael Turner: Episode One

After I left Renée, sitting in my room, reading my copy of HP, Royally Flushed (still wearing the "Screw-Me Shoes" mind you), I slipped out into Hogsmeade. It was actually really nice outside—I mean, it was sort of cold, but not freezing cold, and everything was really still and quiet and dark and it was just the moon up in the sky, practically no stars, and it was kind of windy, but not _too_ windy—it was just perfect, you know, because on the intersection of Vesta and Orion, where Michael had told me to wait for him, it was completely silent, which had me kind of wondering for a second whether or not some serial killer would come out and slit my throat, but whatever.

So, I was waiting on the intersection of Vesta and Orion, when suddenly this figure just appears, walking straight down the road, without any fear of brooms crashing into him and crushing his bones or whatever, and walks up to me, and was just like: "Are you ready?" Of course, this fantastic figure in black was Michael, looking sexy and dashing as ever in a really "Bond, James Bond" kind of way.

Really, what I will never understand is why Hogsmeade was so quiet and still—it was only eight o'clock, but it seemed like it was midnight the way all the street lights were on but nobody was around. But, anyway, when Michael asked me if I was ready, I was just breath-taken, so I just wordlessly followed him as he led me into this bar. And this was just too odd to be coincidence: the bar was completely empty too. So I looked over at Michael to get his reaction and he was just smiling sweetly at me in this adorable, romantic way. I know it may have killed the moment, but for, like, a split second, I seriously thought was what I was thinking before was right: maybe Michael was an evil serial killer and he was going to hold me hostage and lure Harry out here, saying that if he didn't come I'd die, and then he was going to kill Harry and help Lord V return to power or something.

But then the violins started up. And then the piano. And then Michael led me through this door and there was _a string quartet and a concert pianist sitting on a stage in the front of this absolutely gorgeous room that was completely covered in __rose petals__ and swathed in white_. I wanted to throw my arms around this Michael Turner and snog him until he could no longer retain the capacity to speak, but I restrained myself.

"Do you like it?" he whispered, and seriously: at that very moment I really, really couldn't think of any words to say, at least any words that made a modicum of sense.

After I regained the power of speech, I just turned to him and said, "Such a stupid question—any idiot could tell that this is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me." And I suppose that was his cue to lean over and kiss me. YAY!

So, after the epic kiss of the century, he took out his wand and swished it around (this sounds really odd, but I meant the magical instrument—oh damn, that sounds odd too—but you know what I mean) and then flowers just started _sprouting, _and then this dinner table appeared with approx. fifty-billion courses on it. I stared blankly like a dumb animal, and he had to lead me over and pull out my chair and everything.

Why is Michael so damn thoughtful? I mean: most other boyfriends would drag me down to a pub and not even pay for my drink. I know, he did drag me down to a pub, but it wasn't really a pub, it was a romantic site that was posing as a pub. Why is he so wonderful? _Digress._

Okay, not only were there really, freakishly expensive-looking napkins and glasses and centerpieces, there was _caviar_ and _escargot_. I was just like: "YAY, I can get my French-ness on!" There was bouillabaisse galore and all sorts of other soups and filet mignon, and I took a deep breath and thought: "Fleur, prepare to fall off the Abs Diet." There was not a raspberry, instant oatmeal, or extra-strength whey powder in sight.

"Did you do all this, or did you fly someone in to cater this or something?" I asked, kind of gaping. I have never seen so much food in my entire life—I mean, when there are only two people who are prepared to eat it. I was beginning to think that we should invite the string quartet and the pianist to come eat with us, which was selfishness working, because I didn't want to fall _that_ far off the Abs Diet.

"Yeah, actually, I kind of just checked out some recipes and conjured a bunch of stuff up and hired the musicians," he said, pointing to Mr. String Quartet and Mr. Piano-man.

I mean, that is just ridiculously hot. MY BOYFRIEND DID ALL OF IT. Sure, it's not as if he slaved away over a hot oven cooking all of this crap, but he did spend a bunch of time conjuring it up and decorating and with the flowers and the whole illusion of "Oh, honey, I just thought this sleazy pub would be nice for our first date" which he had running for a bit. Will not tell him about serial killer suspicions.

I looked at the musicians he was pointing to. "So, what exactly do they play?"

Michael smiled (fantastic, fantastic, fantastic) and made some incomprehensible signal at them, and then Mr. Older-Than-Flitwick Violinist started playing Usher's "Caught Up." I was just like: OH MY EFF, I am watching a mini-orchestra play Usher. Did I mention that Michael was looking sexy in a tuxedo? That has nothing to do with anything, but I just like saying that.

So then, we started talking, as the mini-orchestra switched up to Destiny's Child "Lose My Breath," which was drastically appropriate considering I had totally forgotten how to breathe and was thinking, "Damnation Fleur—we should have worn an effing dress."

And you know: the conversation was great. It was crazy because I was thinking that it would be all awkward, but it was easy to talk to him. And we talked about everything, (as we were eating our fantastic dinners and listening to the MO play "Disco Inferno") from Defense Against the Dark Arts theory to music to America to Alfie, the giant squid. (That last topic made me want to segue into Jude Law, but I resisted, since Michael is hotter than Jude Law ever was.) I think I might actually have a nice boyfriend—

For once!

**10:12 a.m.** – I am beginning to wonder what Jacques and Renée do all day while I'm sitting through my classes. I am not sure I want to know, since they probably get up to all sorts of mischief. As a matter of fact, Jacques and Renée could be having an illicit affair and I wouldn't know because I'm sitting through classes all day long.

I hope Jacques and Renée aren't having an affair, because that would scar me for life. Then again, it is very probable, because Renée is always alluding to me having a secret affair with Jacques, which might just be her way of letting out her passion for my best friend. It's just the kind of thing that is discussed in my newest book, "_Am I Fat?": The Psychology of Today's Women._

**11:30 a.m.** – I am, as always, reading during Care of Magical Creatures. _"Am I Fat?": The Psychology of Today's Women_ is a surprisingly insightful book which is enabling me to understand my motivations as well as the motivations of others to do what they do. With luck, I'll be able to understand Renée. And my mother, for that matter. When is Jacques going to tell me the solution to all of my problems?

**12 NOON** – All right, Jacques has just told me the solution to all of my problems. I think it was pretty stupid of me not to realize this solution, because it's pretty elementary: I must go visit my mother. Now, no _duh_, right? Jacques believes I should wait a bit for my mother to exhaust this "new phase-ness" in her life before I charge in there and say, "Mother, this isn't you—be YOU," which he supposes should take about a month. So in April, I am going to have to charge off and spend time with my family.

**5:05 p.m.** – You're effing kidding me! I've gained back a pound. I've got to stop eating so much. Wait, no—I should eat _more_.

WHY DOES THE ABS DIET CONFLICT SO MUCH WITH TRADITIONAL DIETING METHODS?

**6:45 p.m.** –

AAC

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: five foot seven and a recently acquired ¾! I am gaining height at an alarming rate ever since I incorporated calcium and protein into my diet.

Weight: 126! Damnation—I bob up and down like some sort of freakish buoy.

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: I am too in love with Michael to lust after anyone else. Hm… I _lurve_ him.

Cyber-boyfriend: Were you just not paying any attention at all when I discussed how freakishly wonderful Michael is? God, what is the point of my pouring out my heart when you don't pay any attention? MICHAEL IS THE BEST.

Favorite Class SF: Charms and that may never change.

Least SF: Potions, because Snape has been taking Sleaze lessons and has moved up to level 3 sleaziness. Soon he will be teaching the class himself.

Pilates Minutes: 17

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 40

Jude-thinking Minutes: 28

HP-thinking Minutes: 10

HG glares: 1

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 302

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 2 to 9.

Overall Day: I'm in a euphoric state because of my lovely date last night, so absolutely nothing can go wrong.

**Day Forty-Five of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 2****nd**

**In Potions**

**7:43 AM**

**7:43 a.m. – **This is very odd. Dumbledore has requested my presence in his office. OH, GOD. This is like Lupin, isn't it? Didn't he say that teacher-teacher relationships, while not prohibited, were frowned upon? Oh damn, someone has told him about me and Michael.

I should just start crying and apologizing.

**8:35 a.m.** **– **I didn't even get to start crying and apologizing before Dumbledore got right down to the reason he had called me into his office. "Ms. Delacour, you have been at this school for, oh… a month and a half, is that correct?"

I just nodded, wondering when the appropriate time to start crying and apologizing would be now that he'd gotten his little intro-to-why-we're-here started.

"Well, then, I should say that I have given you more than ample time to decide which class it is that you wish to co-teach, don't you think?"

I nodded my head and swallowed hard. I suck at everything. My idea of being an assistant teacher was running around fetching cauldrons when the actual teacher was too lazy. _Teaching?_ That's just asking way too much from a girl who doesn't pay attention during class and has no real academic skills. The only thing I was remotely good at in school was Charms. But you know, Flitwick is nice enough—I could choose his class.

"I would like for you to choose a class by the end of the day," said Dumbledore amiably. "Lemon drop?"

"No thank you," I said uncomfortably, after which I promptly dashed out of the room to go hover in my own room, skiving off all my classes of the day, thinking about what on earth I'm supposed to do. Which is what I'm doing now, of course.

**9:05 a.m.**

Different Classes and Their Pros and Cons

By F. Delacour

**Arithmancy:**

Pro – Saying, "Oh yes, Mother, I've gotten a job teaching Arithmancy," carries a bunch of weight. Nobody actually knows what Arithmancy is, but they're always pretending they do, so they're not going to go asking you questions about it for fear of being exposed as a fraud. However, they'll be very impressed when realize that you actually understand it.

Con – I have no idea what Arithmancy is, even though I've been sitting in on classes. I always use Arithmancy to read my self-help books, because I know that even if I listened, I wouldn't understand. Jacques did Arithmancy in school and tried to explain it to me once, and I had a headache for two days—that's how I know it's over my head.

**Care of Magical Creatures:**

Pro – I actually know something about COMC. I know what the uses of the animals are and what they do and how they act and such (well, most of the time).

Con – I am always either skipping out on Care of Magical Creatures or reading one of the trashy books from the Athena O'Hereagall Romantic Book Club during it. Also, the gamekeeper does not like me that much.

**Charms:**

Pro – Professor Flitwick is nice and I actually have some Charms aptitude. For the most part, I _do_ pay attention in this class. I make extraordinary _effort_ to pay attention in his class—and have even improved my fire-setting skills—hence poor Underwear Boy from my conversation with Renée.

Con – Well, _Michael_ doesn't teach that class. Other than that, I cannot think of anything wrong with this class at all.

**Defense Against the Dark Arts:**

Pro – Michael teaches this class and I get to see him looking really sexy all the time, pacing around the class in his abnormally sexy pants, giving lectures. Also, this is Harry's best class, and he looks abnormally sexy in this class too, all knowledgeable and concentrating.

Con – Michael expects me to pay a ridiculous amount of attention in this class, I am sure. For example, he might feel slighted if I decided to read "Seduction in Soho" during his class or something. He will need constant validation for his sexiness. Besides, I will always feel as if he is noticing me checking out Harry while he's talking about Unforgivable Curses. And then sometimes I zone out and think about, I don't know, the two of them doing random battle, and I don't think he realizes that I am thinking about how hot he is and may think that I am just not paying attention because I don't care, and _I DO_.

**Divination:**

Pro – There are no pros at all to this class, the most pointless class ever. Wait: I am for the most part always able to ignore everything Professor Treloony says and do other things, like make lists.

Con – Professor Trelawney is an evil hag who is wicked to me and pebbled me. She makes me stop making lists to do mundane tasks, such as picking up teacups filled with tealeaves. She is constantly predicting my death and I know she is an evil fraud. Harry is not even in her class, so I would fully like to see the point.

**History of Magic:**

Pro – Professor Binns never asks me to do anything, probably doesn't notice that I am alive, so I can always sleep or read during his class. Actually, I read and sleep during a surprising amount of my classes.

Con – I always fall asleep in this class, even against my will, and then Draco comes over and whispers obscenities in my ear. _So _much worse than "Sexcretary." Also, there is always the chance of a repeat of the Neville incident, and I might unwittingly fall asleep on some other student. And, though he is sexy beyond belief, I don't believe I could bear falling asleep on Harry. (Is my lust for him back on? I do believe it turned off after Jacques and my mother got involved in my life again, but is it now back on?)

**Potions:**

Pro – None. None. None.

Con – Snape is a disgusting sleazebag who is only interested in getting out his years of pent-up sexual frustration by, unlike normal sleazebags who would just watch porno on the internet, hitting on me constantly. He is constantly unfair to Harry and treating him like crap and demeaning him, when, in actuality, he is a pretty okay Potions student. Because he favors the Slytherins so, Draco has a ridiculous amount of confidence in this particular class and finds it totally okay to hit on me just as much as Snape does.

**Transfiguration:**

Pro – At least McGonagall is a fair teacher and is kind to Harry.

Con – She notices when I'm reading smut during her class, so I can never get away with doing anything but paying rapt attention. However, if I'm her assistant and I mess up, she will yell at me and then I will probably cry.

**12:15 p.m. **– Have just recounted the entire list of Different Classes and Their Pros and Cons to Jacques, and he says that I should go with Flitwick since I have some expertise in that area and because the teacher is nice. "I would have thought you would have DADA as your first choice, since you're seeing the teacher and all," he said. He does not understand about my entire dilemma with Michael and Harry because I left out that part. It's not as if Jacques wouldn't laugh _uproariously_ at my unrequited lust for Harry Potter. As he was saying this, Harry was coming in from Quidditch practice. Harry never looks better than when he's just come in from Quidditch practice.

Jacques was talking about the advantages of Charms and his confusion as to why I didn't make a greater effort to display the pros of Defense when he realized I wasn't listening. So he just turned around, saw Harry, and snapped his head back around. "Oh… I see. Is _that_ the problem with DADA? God, Fleur, if you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen."

"But if I leave the kitchen, that doesn't change the fact that there's _something cooking_," I said absentmindedly, staring at Harry as he wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. _Shag me. _You know, on Harry, sweat does not look like something gross your body does to keep you cool—it looks like something fantastic your body does to make you look even more fantastic. I'm sure this only applies to males, because when I sweat, it's sort of nasty.

"Fleur," Jacques said decidedly, "all you think about is sex."

Head swivel, instantly offended. "That is not true! How could you _possibly _insinuate that all I think about is sex? I think about _tons_ of other things!"

"Oh, come on, Fleur—your mind is like one of those smutty books you're always reading—everything revolves around sex," Jacques said firmly.

Counterpoint! "How can my world revolve around sex if I haven't even had it yet?" I exclaimed triumphantly, absolutely infuriated and probably talking too loudly. Grrr, the nerve of Jacques, thinking that all I think about is sex. He'll see.

"Well, you spend hours on end obsessing about your boyfriend, which basically amounts to: sex. You spend hours upon hours obsessing over movie stars, and that basically amounts to: sex. The selection of your classes is being delayed because of one little issue: sex. Every single book you read is about one thing: sex. You've even said—the guys you date are assholes, but you keep seeing them for one reason: sex. Your entire life is sex."

I was ready to beat Jacques with a stick by this point in time. "Jacques, how can the reason that I date the guys I date be about sex, if I never have sex with them?"

"You're all about sexual attraction, Fleur," said Jacques loudly. I was beginning to feel as that if I tried to beat Jacques with a stick, he'd find a tree and shove me into it.

"Well, Jacques, it's not like you're this perfect little celibate angel—if you think all I think about is sex, then you're being a huge, huge hypocrite," I retorted.

Jacques shook his head at me. "Look, I think about substance too—which is more than I can say for you most of the time. You don't even know Harry Potter, and you barely know Michael."

"That is _outside_ of enough, Jacques! If you think you can claim that you think about _substance_, I have one _freaking_ word for you: GRETCHEN. You can take your hypocrisy and your lectures and your theory and shove them right up your—"

"Hey, Ms. Delacour, could you pass the salt," some pointless Third Year yelled at me.

"GET IT YOURSELF, SHRIMP," I yelled, and promptly stormed out of the Great Hall, leaving Jacques with his mouth wide open behind me.

**3:07 p.m.** – I have no fuh-reaking clue what is the matter with Jacques lately. It's like he's been possessed by this argumentative demon. He's not even _right_ about the fact that I "only think about sex." Is he?

**3:12 p.m.** – Have spent last 5 minutes going through journal using excruciating analyzing skills worthy of Sherlock Homes and Doctor Watson.

Numbers:

Variations on the word "sex": 67

Variations on the word "lust": 41

Variations on the world "hot": 59

"Harry": 68

"Michael": 221

"Boyfriend": 53

Overall Number of Words Implying Sex Obsession: 509.

Oh my God. Jacques was right. I am _obsessed_ with sex.

**5:45 p.m.** – Walked somberly into Great Hall for dinner, head hung with shame. "Jacques," I said solemnly, "you're right. I am sex-obsessed. I am a planet and sex is the sun—my entire life revolves around it. I am shallow and superficial and now, Jacques, I am repentant. Forgive me, for wasting your time talking incessantly about sex, even though I didn't realize I was doing it."

Jacques looked at me as if he had just seen me rise from the dead, which might as well be true, as I have transcended my sex-obsessed half-life. "What?"

"And I have decided, just to prove to you that I am leaving this sex obsession behind, I am not, as you may have previously suspected, going to choose Defense Against the Dark Arts as a means to selfishly fulfill my hedonistic desires, but instead have decided to do Potions, as a testament to how much I have changed," I said in a very business-like manner.

Jacques choked on his sandwich and then said what I believe to be a few Japanese curse words before talking to me. "What, and subject yourself to sexual harassment day in and day out? I can't let you do that!"

"No, Jacques, I have already made up my mind—I must do Potions, not only to prove that I am not sex-obsessed, but as a means to reach the top of the Jungian Tree of Self-Actualization! I must be all I can be, and in order to self-actualize, I must face adversity and better myself through that course."

"I don't give a damn—I _believe _you—you're not sex-obsessed, whatever. Do not choose Potions," said Jacques almost as firmly as he had said that all I thought about was sex. "Your betterment through the adversity of sexual oppression—that's masochism, that's Faust selling his soul to the devil for the chance to experience life with superhuman knowledge and power! _Forget_ experiencing life with the superhuman knowledge and power that comes from not being obsessed with sex—do not go and work with THE DEVIL."

"Jacques, it doesn't matter—I've already told Dumbledore," I confess, to which Jacques says something that sounds like a mixture of "cuso," "benjo," and the F-word.

"Well, I'm sure Dumbledore will let you switch courses if you file a sexual harassment suit. But if you are forced to endure sexual subjugation by one of those disgusting Slytherins and you want me to contact the Ministry or dismember someone or something, you just tell me, okay?"

"Jacques," I said, smiling faintly, "I'm pretty sure the Slytherins won't force me to endure sexual subjugation, but if they do, I'll either set them on fire or call you, okay?" It's funny how Jacques switches between being a total jackass and a concerned sweetheart. "You're the best, you know that?" And I bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Damn, I'm hungry. I barely ate any dinner.

**Day Forty-Six of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 3****rd**

**In Potions**

**8:26 AM**

**8:26 a.m. – **I don't think I ever really realized that being the Potions assistant meant that I would have to stay in the Potions Classroom for an inordinate amount of time and have Potions period after period after period. God, it's like these students have nothing better to do than sit in Potions and mix bad smelling things. You don't want to know how many students have dropped their green goop on my shoes and let it sit there long enough for me to tell that no, this isn't Draught of Peace, this is Draught of **BURN A FRICKING HOLE IN FLEUR'S FRICKING SHOES. **

Good God, I may die of having to go around checking to make sure that the potions are actually correct, knowing that none of them are because all of them are bright green when they should be light pink. Nobody in any of these frickafracking classes has any _idea_ how to properly mix Draught of Peace, which any idiot knows how to do, especially me, because how the heck else do you think I got through _les_ breakups_ avec_ Fernando, Aaron, Zachary, Ivan, Neal, and Lex? GOD! How hard is it not to put the frog's leg in the potion until the very last **FRICKING** step, YOU **FRICKING** IDIOTS?

Breathe, Fleur, Breathe. Think of something pleasant, like the ending of "Ever After," or something.

**9:00 a.m.** – I am still in Potions. I'm not leaving the dungeons until Lunch. GOD, Snape has time to have his dirty way with me during transition, if he wanted to! Jacques was right and I didn't listen—_I am so not made for Potions_. Charms was calling, which I instead ignored in favor of a class whose teacher Jacques compared to Mephistopheles from _Faust_.

OH, HELL. They're leaving. Once all the students leave, I will be alone in this dungeon with Snape. This is _always_ the part in my smutty books where the heroine finds herself backed up against the wall by her wealthy but wicked employer/benefactor/sick stepfather, who then tells her that either she submits or he kills her family/yanks his money out of her family's farm/gets her disowned. God, I hope Snape doesn't kill my family. I hate Renée, but she's my sister and I love her, you know?

**9:30 a.m.** – Thank God, all he did was tell me that I ought to wear my hair up more often, presumably to avoid any hideous accidents which leave me bald, though he gave no actual spoken reason for this preference, merely a head-to-toe review of The Current State of Fleur. Before this class, at breakfast, Jacques asked me to tell him every off-topic thing Snape said to me, and I suppose I shall have to report that to him too. God, I hope Snape doesn't give Jacques cause to contact the Ministry or kill him or something. Because Jacques would totally kill him. When Fernando cheated on me, the next day at Pretty Sticks, Jacques broke his nose. It was sort of unfortunate, because Fernando had a very nice nose, but he was a wicked scumbag anyway.

**11:30 a.m.** – Harry's class is filing in now. Oh wicked, wicked Fate, why do you toy with me so, testing me to see if my heart is true? I've already pledged to give up my life of hedonism—please give me at least a _mini-_break.

**12:05 p.m.** – I swear to God, I want Draco Malfoy to die. I hope Jacques breaks his perfectly shaped nose and then snaps his fingers one by one and then strangles him to death. Slowly. As if this entire day hasn't been _merde dans un seau_, I was walking around in agony, looking at the potions and making sure they were at least all the right color, when Draco Malfoy goes, "Fl—Ms. Delacour?" (And he says my name like I'm a stripper and he's calling me over to put money in my underwear. By the way, what was my mother thinking naming me Fleur? I mean, _flower_? No, I totally don't strip in my spare time.) "I can't read this footnote," he said. He was pointing at the most miniscule writing I had ever seen at the very bottom of page 412, the page on Veritaserum. Textbook authors can be such jerks. So I peer at this footnote to no avail, as it's absolutely impossible to read. So I lean in closer. It's still absolutely tiny. So I lean in closer.

And then I can finally read what it says—it says: "Look up." So I look up, just to see what the hell Draco thinks this means. So I jerk my head up and then Draco _fricking kisses me_.

I completely spazzed out. "What the hell was that, you pervert?!" I shrieked, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. The little jackass was smiling. "What, do you think that was _fun_ for me, you blonde-haired, pale-skinned _freak? Va te faire enculer, connard ! __Putain de merde, je ne te croix pas ! Quel con!_"

I think by this time the entire class realized that I was cursing. After a bit more of cursing, I regained my composure, flipped my hair and hissed in Draco's general direction, "Draco, you psychopathic, narcissistic, self-absorbed half-wit, you're a fricking mannequin and _that's_ why you _disgust_ me. You're too fricking pale, you're too fricking skinny, and you've got a fricking pole right up your—"

"Ms. Delacour!" shouted Snape.

"And if you ever do that again, I will personally see to it that after Defense Against the Dark Arts today, every single bone in your body is broken, fractured, or _removed_. You got that, freak?"

"Ms. Delacour," said Snape sternly, because he seemed to think that saying my name will automatically shut me up.

"Oh, shut up, you self-important git," I said, whirling around on Snape, who looked about ready to spank me. "We both know that you just get a kick out of making me pick up crap. And you can go—[_blah, blah, curses, blah]_—just like Draco, over there okay? And NO, I will not be your Sexcretary, you fricking SEX OFFENDER."

And that was my first day of Potions.

**2:07 p.m.** – I am so not going back to Potions. You cannot fricking make me. I am taking the day _off_.

**4:39 p.m.** – I have now fully cooled down from this morning's total spaz. But it was totally justified, seeing as how DRACO MALFOY STUCK HIS TONGUE DOWN MY THROAT. Okay, maybe not so cooled down.

**6:15 p.m.** – I have just finished recounting the events of this morning's Potions class to Jacques and Michael, and they want to take turns breaking Draco's face. Michael, in his fury, is very happy that I yelled at Draco so thoroughly. "Hey, what does _enculer_ mean anyway?"

Before I can answer, Jacques clears his throat and says, "Just think of a word that begins with F and ends with U-C-K."

"And I didn't tell Draco to go firetruck himself, if that's what you're thinking," I mumbled into my bouillabaisse.

"Please let me break his face," said Michael.

"If you do, you'll get fired once Lucius Malfoy finds out about it," I protested, looking at Jacques for backup support. If Michael gets fired, there will be absolutely no point in my meaningless existence, and I should just go to Dumbledore and announce my resignation. "So let Jacques break his face."

"Gladly," said Jacques giving Draco's table a very filthy look. I would completely not be surprised if Jacques actually went over there and hauled off and socked Draco Malfoy for violating my sanctity or whatever.

Michael looked fairly upset at the prospect of not being able to do something to protect my honor, which is understandable. I've read about how men are prone to feeling incompetent when a woman has to rely on another man to feel protected and safe—not that I have to rely on Jacques to feel protected and safe. I just _do_ sometimes. "You know, we could all just take turns setting his feet on fire under the table," I suggested so that Michael would feel included.

Michael and Jacques both seemed to like this idea, even though Jacques really wanted to be violent (he's a pacifist, but every once in a while he has to release his inner rage somehow—that's why he likes things like boxing and Israeli hand-to-hand combat training, like krav maga). In the end, we all went around in a little circle aiming spells for Draco's feet. It was quite amusing watching him yelp and jump a little bit during the tales he was entertaining Crabbe and Goyle with. "Well, I _know_ she wants me—OW!" every four minutes, and giving scathing glares over at our table where I just gave him a little wave.

What a thoroughly satisfying way to get a little revenge on that disgusting creature. Jacques still maintains that I should file a sexual harassment suit and sue the Malfoys for all they're worth, and Michael is still encouraging me to forget about his job and let him slam his head in a car door (see, everyone likes that option), but I continue to tell them to restrain themselves to doing little things like giving him second-degree burns.

I'll get better revenge on him later.

**Day Forty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 5****th**

**In Potions (No Fricking Duh)**

**9:40 AM**

**9:40 a.m. – **I have returned to Potions after my day-and-a-half off, and have told Professor Sleaze-Git that if he or any one of his students pulls any kind of crap today, I will go to Dumbledore or _worse_ I will sue the pants off of him—but, _you know_, he can keep his pants on and all. And if he can't afford any after I've finished with him, I will graciously supply him with a pair.

He looks incredibly sour, but that's only because his student stuck his snakelike tongue in my mouth and he didn't get a chance. It's like it says in "The Glass Jockstrap: The Superiority of Women to Men," my new favorite book: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all women are created equal and that all men are whores." And it's the gospel truth.

**10:20 a.m.** – So far I have gone through my classes without incident. Okay, one Mr. Stupid Head in 4th year asked me to sample his Happy Potion (that's not what it's called, but I can't remember the actual name and that's what it does, anyway), and it made me cough up blood.

Oh, yeah, I bet Snape thought I was _really_ hot then!

**10:36 a.m.** – Since when does Harry's class have Potions at this time? I am really tempted to run out of the door and hide in the bathroom, but that would be childish of me, wouldn't it?

Draco is coming in, looking smug. He flashes me a look and I swear: he looks just so _Fernando_ right now. I am so tempted to forcibly remove him from this room so that I can make him eat his wand. WHOA, bad imagery there.

Snape is giving a nice long lecture about the Veritaserum potions they concocted the other day, and how they were all crap. I am forced to agree. So he's going to make them all drink each other's potions to see what could have happened if they were out in the real world and effed up their potions like they did before. Of course, Neville has come down with some sort of illness or perhaps bashed his head in, so I'll have to take someone's in order to "keep the balance." Snape just wants to interrogate me as to whether or not I want to let him into the candy shop and—well, you know the song.

**10:47 a.m.** – Frick; I've gotten Hermione's potion. And you _know_ hers is like the only one in this entire batch that's actually going to work. Damn, DAMNITY, damn.

**10:50 a.m.** – Now that we've swallowed our potions, we're going to ask other people probing questions and write down their reactions to test the relative strengths of the students' Veritaserum. I get to ask Harry questions because Harry got Neville's potion. Does this make any sense? I never could work out these group project dynamics. Hermione gets to question me, and I have to question Harry?

Well there, Jacques, looks like Fate _likes it_ when I'm sex-obsessed, because obviously I need to be constantly thrust into the prescence of a _sex god._

**10:52 a.m.** –

Questions and Answers with Harry Potter

By Fleur Delacour

Question (Q): What is your name?

Answer (A): Harry Potter.

Q: Um, middle name?

A: James.

Q: Ookay. Tougher questions. What do you think of Professor Snappy over there?

A: I think he's a slimy git.

Q: True. Hm. What do you think of your DADA teacher?

A: He's okay.

Q: Okay?!

A: Yeah.

Q: Are you serious? He's brilliant!

A: He's better than most of our DADA teachers, who, you know, try to kill students.

Q (after thoughtful pause): Do you think I should allow said DADA teacher to break Draco Malfoy's face?

A: Yes.

Q: Hm… that's what I was thinking. If you could have rollicking good sex with anyone in this room, who would it be?

A: Why do you want to know?

Q: Aha! Answer a question with a question—tricky tactics. Just because I am a nosy, nosy girl with very bad intentions. Just answer the question.

A: I'm not sure.

Q: Liar.

A, with a smile: No, seriously. I can't decide.

Q: Liar, liar, Levi jeans on fire.

A: I can't lie under Veritaserum.

Q: No, you mean _I_ can't lie under Veritaserum. I got Hermione's. _You_ got Neville's. There is a difference. You're lying.

A: I advised you to let the DADA teacher break Draco's face—how could I be lying?

Q: If I knew that, would I be the potions _assistant_? No. Moving on. (Pause to contemplate life's most burning questions, arrive at…) Do you think I'm fat?

A (laughs): No.

Q: That is so diplomatic of you. More reasons for me to think you're lying. Hmmm… I'm going to have ask you a very intrusive, private, invasive question just to make sure that the Boy Who Lived isn't just the Boy Who Lied with a V.

A (laughing): Okay, shoot.

Q (conspiratorially): Do you ever have horrible, dirty, dirty thoughts during Potions?

A: Yes.

Q: That's all I wanted to know.

A: Why?

Q: Oh. No comment.

A (seeming more amused every minute): Why do you want to know?

Q: _C'est parce que… moi, je pense que tu es trop beau—c'était la seule raison. Peut-être j'avais espéré que si tu aies des pensées crasseuses pendant cette classe, ce sont à cause de moi. C'est vachement bête. Mais, je soupçonne que tu l'aies su. Et donc, pourquoi as-tu me demandé? Euh, les hommes. Vous êtes tous stupides._

_._

A: Did you just call me stupid?

Q: No, I called the entire male population stupid—there's a difference. I hope you caught my answer to your question—I know you were just dying to know.

A: That was dirty and underhanded.

Q: _Mais, je l'ai déjà_ _dit!_ I am a nosy, nosy girl with very bad intentions. These intentions extend to every part of my life. Surprise, I'm a bad girl.

A: Yes, I noticed.

Q: What do you mean, you _noticed_?

**Xxx**

Snape: Time's up—if you've just finished interrogating, it's your turn to answer questions and vice versa.

DAMN, I get to go be viciously cross-examined by Bushy Haired Smart Girl.

**11:30 a.m.** – Well, the interrogation didn't go as crappily as I thought it would. Obviously, it wasn't great, but it wasn't the Spanish Inquisition.

It was the English Inquisition.

Questions and Answers as Asked by Hermione Granger

Q: What is your name?

A: Fleur Delacour.

Q: What is your middle name?

A: Jean-Marie.

Q: Your favorite class in school?

A: Charms, of course.

Q: "Of course?"

A: I was good at Charms in school. Um, decent. Not fantastic or anything.

Q: Oh. Hm. Who is your dearest friend?

A: Jacques DeMontmorency, childhood _ami_, former English tutor… or present English tutor, one never really can tell.

Q: What do you like to do in your spare time?

A: This is _nothing_ like Truth or Dare!

Q: Did you expect it to be like Truth or Dare?

A: Well, _yes._ There's no point in asking someone a question unless it's intrusive and invasive and _crucial_. I thought you might ask a question that would hit way too close to home and make me curse out loud.

Q: Well then. Did it suck when Draco kissed you or did you secretly enjoy it?

A: Oh God. It was absolutely disgusting. It was like swallowing a worm and then having the worm trying to find its way out, but this worm is a blind worm and keeps going the wrong way. There is no way I could ever even _think_ about that kiss with even a modicum of enjoyment.

Q: Are you dating Professor Turner?

A: _Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes._

Q: How's that?

A: It's new, but so far it is _beyond _fantastic.

Q: But doesn't Professor Turner have a problem with that guy who follows you around all the time?

A: Oh, that's just Jacques. _Mais non, non, non, non, __non__._ Jacques is my very best friend—and he doesn't follow me around all the time—he's great! I mean, yes, in the beginning Michael was just like, "Yeah, he's got to stay away from you," but now he sees that Jacques and I are in a completely nonsexual relationship. I think.

Q: And what about Harry?

A: Um. What _about_ Harry?

Q (beginnings of HG glare): How do you feel about Harry?

A: Harry?

Q: Yes. Harry. In English, please.

A: If I tell you, will you not kill me and not tell anybody?

Q: Yes.

A: If you do, you get what Draco gets, you know.

Q: Yes. Whatever. Tell me.

A (whispering): Okay, here's what I'm thinking about Harry. Harry is hot, hot, hot—extremely hot, Starbucks chai hot. There we go. That's what I'm thinking about Harry. But I think he's hot in a totally nonsexual way, seeing as how I have a boyfriend and everything. Like, you know, window-shopping, or something.

Q: Window-shopping?

A: Window-shopping. Just in case you decide to return the things you bought, you have to window-shop. So I'm _window_-shopping!

Q: Okay. Thanks.

A: You're welcome. That was very Truth-or-Dare-esque of you.

Well see, it wasn't _total_ _merde_. But I think she combined the instructions for Veritaserum with the instructions for Babbling Potion. Why else would I say the word "hot" and "non" so many times? Despite suspicions, I am beginning to think that maybe, _just _maybe, Hermione Granger could be okay.

**5:44 p.m.** – ACK, Seamus Fidgety-Frick is over at his table talking about how he overheard me comparing kissing Draco to having a blind worm in my mouth. Grrr, what else did they overhear?

**Day Fifty of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 7****th**

**Freaking in the Dungeons**

**11:29 AM**

**11:29 a.m. – **Ack! Ack! Ack! Professor Snape has just asked to see me after class and I've no frickafracking idea what on earth to do. I'm not quite sure if he wants to harass me or something and can't do it in public or something.

**12 NOON** – You'll never believe what Snape has asked me to do. I mean, it's not like he _actually_ asked me to give him a guided tour of the muffin factory or anything, because if Snape ever even _said_ the words "muffin factory" to me, Michael would remove his innards and Jacques would string a guitar with them. No, it was nothing like that, but he's asked me to do something so ridiculously ironic that I just _know_ fate wants me to be sex-obsessed, just _needs_ me to be sex-obsessed.

Snape and Dumbledore want me to give Harry _private "Potions" lessons_.

When he told me this, I was tempted to ask him if he just wanted me and Harry to have sex on tape or something. Because that is _just _what private "Potions" lessons sounds like. This is even crappier than: "I can't make it I have 'private tutoring sessions' with Jacques."

I know, you're thinking, "So what's with the quotation marks around Potions indicating that it's not _really_ Potions you'll be giving Harry private lessons in." So I'm going to satisfy your curiosity by telling you exactly what I'll be giving Harry lessons in: "alternative self-protection." What I want to know, however, is why, exactly, Snape seems to think I am the person to instruct Harry in means of Alternative Self-Protection in the DEAD OF THE NIGHT.

"Yeah, Michael, we can't go out on a second date any time soon. I'm so sorry, but I have teach Harry Potter… alternative self-protection around eight-ish tonight and we may be up _all_ night so, I don't know if that opera we were going to fits into my plans."

Oh yeah. Michael will love that.

**1:05 p.m.** – I asked Jacques what he thought "alternative self-protection" could be defined as. Jacques looked me right in the eye and said, "It means they want you to teach Harry to use… genetic gifts to get out of trouble."

"And why the hell would D-Door and Snappy want _me_ to teach Harry about using his 'genetic gifts to get out of trouble?" I responded, stuffing a rather large cookie in my mouth.

"Fleur, you really are dull sometimes," sighed Jacques, taking a shamrock-shaped green cookie from the plate between us.

"I can't believe you think I'm dull!"

Renée, who had been sitting there watching me eat in utter disgust, finally spoke up: "Stop complaining, you big loser, he just told you you're hot."

I just shook my head at her in confusion. "I don't even—I can't even—you're just absolutely—"

"She's right, you know," Jacques said, getting up, taking the enormous plate of cookies with him. Men are so inconsiderate: maybe I _wanted_ to eat the rest of those cookies, or maybe _Renée_—who am I kidding? Renée doesn't eat. Wishful thinking.

**4:09 p.m.** – If I have no clear idea of what "alternative self-protection" is, then how am I supposed to properly train Harry in it, you know, _starting tonight_. From what Jacques seems to think, all I'd have to do is sit Harry down, explain to him that his hotness is like a gun, walk out, and that's it. But you see, first, I'd have to tell Harry that he's hot.

I'm very glad Michael does not know about this "alternative self-protection" thing.

**5:55 p.m.** – Michael _knows_ about the "alternative self-protection" thing. He says that D-Door had a good long talk with him right after breakfast and asked him whether or not he wants to teach it with me, you know, add some aspects of Defense theory in with my "lessons" or whatever I have to offer. As if there is a secret Book of Veela passed down through generations sitting up on a bejeweled stand in my room, with chapters called _Seducing Dark Lords _and _Escaping Through Fishnets_. It infuriates me that Michael knew about this before I did and didn't tell me anything about it, so I had to get my 411 from Snape. Good God, and if Harry's kidnapped by some assassin and taken off to the mountains to be killed quietly and have his body buried underneath a willow tree, then what good is _sex appeal_ going to do him? "Hey, Mister Assassin Sir, I'm getting all sweaty, would you mind if I casually take my shirt off in a seductive way?" Right—because your abs shall set you free, Harry, your abs shall set you free.

**6:00 p.m.** – Damnation, I have two hours before I'm supposed to scamper down to the dungeons, where Snape is so _graciously_ allowing us to hold our "Potions" classes, and teach Harry how to go around seducing people! Just another case of people thinking I'm _just_ like my sister.

**6:30 p.m.** – Jacques is up in my room now, knowing I'd freak out 1 hour and 30 minutes before the beginning of this treacherous lesson. I have tried to convey to him my emotions regarding my feelings of incompetence when it comes to casual seduction, but he is not having it.

"Well, what about when you came to Hogwarts for the Triwizard Cup—and some five-million people asked you to be their date for the Yule Ball? I think we can safely call that mass charm," says Jacques. He is actually quite endearing when he is trying to convince me that I possess even an iota of animal magnetism.

"So? You've said it yourself: I was a haughty, snotty bitch who disrespected everyone and everything in sight, but still found time to run around toying with the affections of others! I was, like, Renée's über-clone, or something! I was bitter and _awful._"

Jacques gave me a meaningful look, as though he was the director of _Picture Perfect_, telling Jennifer Aniston about the subtleties of her character, and _finally_ having come up with the perfect metaphor. "Well then, there you go—there's your inspiration."

"Renée, the super-slut? Oh, Jacques, now if they sold that in Bed, Bath, & Beyond, that would _so_ be in the Beyond department!"

"Well, this entire 'alternative self-protection' thing belongs in the Beyond department, doesn't it?" he replies, giving me yet another meaningful look, though this one looks more like the director getting back good reviews and looking at his wife like: "You _knew_ I was right, didn't ya, honey?"

Oh, and we both know he is, so what's the point in even putting up a fight?

**10:45 p.m.** – Okay, it may not be "the dead of the night," but it's pretty late, and I've just gotten back from my first Alternative Self-Protection Lesson. Michael was there, so it wasn't _un tas de merde_. He was already "educated" on the subject, having done some background study in the field (the hell?), so he spent some time at least _attempting_ to train me and Harry at the same time, though he did think I had some "natural aptitude." Blah. I'm scattering about with this lesson: let me start at the beginning.

Okay, so first I walked in the door, at which point I saw Harry and Michael standing there, staring at the door. It was kind of odd seeing them standing side by side, because, though they were both kind of slouching, I could see very clearly that Harry is _tall_. I don't know why I haven't noticed this before. He's like the same height as Michael, which is like four full inches taller than me, and I don't know _when_ I had time to figure this one out when I was _supposed_ to be _walking through the door_. **NTS** – Work diligently on sex obsession.

So, Michael said: "Okay, Fleur, now that we're here, we can all get started." I really wanted to make fun of him for sounding so much like a teacher, but then I realized, "Hey! You _are_ a teacher!" and decided not to at the risk of sounding inescapably stupid.

So, out of pure, unadulterated curiosity, I asked Michael, "Soooo, what _is_ alternative self-protection, _anyway_?" Harry seemed slightly taken aback that I, his co-instructor, had no idea what I was supposed to instruct him in, but he didn't say a thing.

Michael grinned, "It's a means of protecting oneself without using magic or violence."

"Okay, well just to clarify things: Does sex have anything to do with this, because Jacques seems to think that this whole thing has something to do with sex, so I'd just like to formally know—does this little 'lesson' thing here have anything to do with sex?"

Michael glowered a bit. "Sex is probably all Jacques thinks about," he said, and isn't that ironical? I was horrified when he continued: "…and in a way, he's right." _KUSO_. "ASP has a lot to do with using personal presence and charm to, in a way, protect oneself."

"You mean like how the dumb henchmen in _Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed_ fell for it when Flora was like, 'Hey boys, come open up my cell so we can make this jailhouse rock?'"

Michael looked at me like he had never heard me use a sexual euphemism before—which, I must admit, he hadn't. "Well, yes, sort of," he said.

"HM, and what do you want me to do?" I asked. Because at the time I was thinking: what could I do? Lend Harry a long string of very trashy books? Make him sit down and watch a couple of episodes of "Xena, Warrior Princess," and some tapes of my favorite shows that I never saw but like 4 times, like "2525" and "Jack of all Trades," with that ridiculous English lady and the uptight French general who looked like he'd accidentally scratched his watch and wound his butt or something?

"Well," Michael cleared his throat as if he were going to divulge something indelicate, "Dumbledore and various other members of staff assumed that you might be experienced in these… fields…"

"Oh-ho… I see…" I said, walking slowly towards Michael, "you and your little staff buddies think I'm just like my ho-bag sister, don't you?"

"Fleur, we don't think you're a… ho-bag," said Michael, "and we don't mean to objectify you in anyway, we just assumed that as a contemporary young lady of your… structure, you might be wise to some of the means such contemporary young ladies employ in order to further themselves in society and in other aspects of life."

"Thank you, Michael," I said smiling, "and I realize that what you just said is a dressed up version of 'sex sells, and we know who's selling it,' but I appreciate you trying to PG that."

"I appreciate you appreciating my efforts," said Michael in a very sexy way, which, and I don't know why, made me look at his tie. I really didn't realize until that very moment that Michael's tie was just kind of hanging lose around his neck and his top button was unbuttoned. At this point I had to mentally kick myself and go, "Stop that, stop that, stop that—no thinking about that!"

"And I appreciate you appreciating my appreciating—"

"So," Harry interjected, "what about this ASP?"

I could at least answer this question. "You need to learn it because everyone in the world is afraid you'll die. Ooh, was that too frank? I have a distinct feeling that that was too frank."

"Okay," said Michael, cutting in to my rant on Harry's mortality. "Fleur, what do you think we should start with today?" I could totally see Michael just worming his way out of having to actually start the teaching himself—it's a pity, because I think he'd have no problem exploring the fields of ASP.

"Well, Harry, I'm going to tell you something that my _very, very_ intoxicated grandmother once told me: When you are physically attractive, it is the same thing as owning a gun—_you must use your weapon wisely._ We are going to teach you how exactly you abuse your weapon and break several gun laws. Are you ready for this?"

Harry nodded, clearly deciding to ride the wave of this absurdity. "Okay," I said, "I'm going to begin by telling you, Harry, something that will make you, Michael, go screaming all over the place with absolute infuriation: Harry, you're hot." Michael seemed to be struggling to keep his composure, which was just evidence that he actually likes me and isn't just pretend-liking me to further his plans to kill Harry and help Lord V-mort return to power. "You're not just hot, you're sexy as—"

"_Okay_, Fleur, that's enough," said Michael finally, seizing me roughly by the shoulders and walking me away from Harry. See, _that_ is the kind of thrilling thing that F-nando _never_ did. It was really nice, because Michael smells really ridiculously good.

And I must admit that I did get a little carried away with telling Harry he was attractive. And now Harry was blushing, which was my fault.

I regained my self-respect (you know, with the help of Michael and his arms) and continued: "My point is, that you are one of the blessed of this world, and if you're not going to use what God gave you, isn't that just… _selfish_?"

Michael was now grinning like some kind of crazy maniac, but I didn't give a flying plate of shitake mushrooms, because he had forgotten to take his hand off of my waist. "So, Fleur, care to regale us with some stories of how you've used ASP to your advantage, just to demonstrate how useful this skill really is?"

I really don't believe this is real. I think this is some sort of elaborate practical joke designed to make me out to be some sort of a fool. But despite my suspicions, I "regaled" them anyway.

"Erm… well, I once flirted with a guy on a train so I could get his window seat, and he ended up sitting next to this 300 pound man with a flatulence problem instead," I said, recalling how I met the boyfriend _before_ Fernando, Ivan. "And I once flirted with a guy in a department store who ended up giving me an 80 percent discount on everything I was buying. As far as life-threatening goes… well… I made out with my old ex-boyfriend Lex to get the explosives out of his back pocket without him noticing."

"See," said Michael happily, "ASP does work."

"I can't believe I'm taking a class in this," Harry said, and personally I couldn't believe I was teaching that class. "Is there going to be homework?"

"Only if you can't find a way to ASP your cute ass out of it," I said, to which Michael gave me a sharp look, seeing as how he had never heard me say the word ass before and as how I'd just told Harry that his was cute.

And so we spent the entire rest of the time instructing Harry in the crucial business of just Standing There Looking Unexpectedly Hot (Even When You Expected You Would), which, surprisingly, Michael knows _a lot_ about. Then again, not so surprisingly.

After all, he is ridiculously sexy.

DAMNATION! Just thought about sex again.

* * *

**A/N:** The line "I should just start crying and apologizing," you may have noticed, is from one of my favorite movies, as well as Fleur's: _Mean Girls._

Keep a watch out for my next chappie! (I'm sorry, I just happen to love the word chappie ever since someone on FictionAlley said it!) Expect much intrigue, much Lustification, and much, much more Harry. Maniacal smiling ensues.

Much love,

Femme Teriyaki


	7. Luff's Labours Lost

**Further March: **Luff's Labours Lost

* * *

**Day Fifty-One of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, March 9****th**

**Having B-fast With J.**

**6:19 AM**

**6:19 a.m. – **Jacques wants to know how the ASP session went last night, and you can so tell that he's trying to be all casual about when he's really dying to know. I'm conflicted as to whether or not I should actually tell him. Sure, he already knows about the lessons so whatever, but is it _wise_ to tell him in public? After yesterday's debriefing (sounds so wrong) on ASP, I feel rather like a secret agent—you know, fighting the forces of evil one lesson at a time! This could warrant code names and dead-drop boxes and perhaps a secret handshake. Then again, the only thing we did was teach Harry how to stand in sexy positions, so what sort of harm could I do by telling Jacques?

"We explained to him that not only is his body a temple, but that it is also a weapon that is always loaded and ready to go. We just need to teach him how to aim and fire," I said, showing Jacques that I can come up with cute little metaphors and say them in a director-ish voice too.

"Oh, God," said Jacques, "you didn't use that metaphor did you?" He was grinning as if he already knew that I was going to smack him, but didn't care very much anyway. So, even though I knew I wouldn't get much satisfaction out of it, since I wouldn't be smacking him properly, I smacked him anyway.

"Yes, I did use that metaphor. And it went over _quite well_, I might add, Oh Snide One," I said. Jacques was so sweet and accommodating when I first met him, so I would fully like to know what major life event occurred to make him so, so sarcastic. I mean, I know spending an inordinate amount of time with _me_ might have _something_ to do with it, but whatever.

"Anything you said would have gone over well," said Jacques bluntly, "—it's a class that's all about exploiting your looks, anyway, with just you and two guys—one with raging hormones and one with what I would call an entirely too active imagination."

"Oh, God, Jacques, you silly frigid man," I sighed, trying to make my utter exasperation with the not-so-gentle men of today clear enough for Jacques to see and absorb. "You know, what's even the point of this ASP? I mean, he's good enough at it without all this special training."

Renée took this opportune moment to arrive, bringing a wave of absolutely disgusting perfume with her. "And _what_, may I ask, is ASP?"

I decided to ignore her and continue on with my conversation with Jacques. "I mean, last night it was evident that the entire thing was pointless, because he has nothing to learn."

"Awkward Sexual Positions!" shouted Renée, like a contestant on "Wheel of Fortune" trying to fill in the blanks while Vanna White walks back and forth in her freakishly high heels. "Amazing Sensual Pleasure!"

"Oh my GOD, you freak!" I said finally, gaping at her. What kind of scary, schizoid maniac goes around screaming phrases like "awkward sexual positions" and "amazing sensual pleasure" at breakfast? Of course, Renée does not care because all the seventh year boys got "amazing sensual pleasure" out of hearing her be all schizoid and such. Bah-humbug.

**6:32 a.m.** – Teaching the heroically gorgeous how to reap further benefits from their gorgeousness makes me depressed about my life progress. I have just realized how fully unsuccessful I am. Sitting at a table where you've got a clear view of hordes of successful Ravenclaws does that do you I guess, but I'm _so_ unsuccessful that it's becoming unbearable. Must solve immediately by finding root of problem.

Hmm… perhaps it is because I haven't gotten any books on it yet. When I arrived in London, before I left for Hogwarts, I stopped in Flourish and Blotts and I saw this book called: _Making a List & Checking it Twice: Using Positive Thinking to Get What You Want,_ which happened to be on sale that day for 4 galleons 2 Sickles and 9 Knuts. Looking back on it, I probably should have bought that book. Regardless, can extrapolate main message from title.

Fleur Delacour's List of Goals to be

Achieved by Summer Holidays

1) Be sufficiently hot. Being hot encompasses:

a) Being wicked skinny, _à la_ Twiggy (I actually hate her for starting the whole rail-thin thing, but whatever—bygones are bygones). Think BMI of like, 17-point-4. My best friend from 6th year—you remember Janine, don't you?—had a BMI of 17.4 and she was very thin, super-fit, super-toned. For an entire week and a half, she had abs, which was very impressive considering the fact that she bobbed up and down between 99 and 100 pounds. Of course, while she was my best friend, I totally hated her at times, because how can you not hate a thin, fit girl with abs? Whose weight sometimes only has two digits? Anyhoo, then I found out about BMIs and told her that she was malnourished and she had a spaz and gained 2 pounds. Which made her still malnourished, but I didn't tell her that, so whatever.

b) Being in the possession of a hot attitude, _à la_ ASP and working the skinny factor.

c) Maintain possession of hot boyfriend in order to further emphasize aforesaid hotness, as equivalent of being card-carrying member of Hotness United,

2) Be self-actualized, with a full understanding of what psychological self-actualization actually is. (This may requite asking Jacques about Jung and Freud and all that other crap.)

3) Reduce your American-ness. While you have tried to reduce this American-ness, it has not worked incredibly well. Evidence in Numbers:

Like: 235 times (that's more times than you've used Michael's _name_)

As If: 25 times

Whatever: 21 times

Duh: 8 times

**Overall American-ness:** 289, awful.

4) Reduce overall profanity, as striving to be graceful, elegant Catherine Deneuve-type character without a trace of foulness in her vocabulary, very attractive to men, etc.

5) Stop thinking so much about S-E-X. 1.3% of everything I say is about sex. This is BAD.

6) Get better body image! NUMBERS!

Fat: 38

Skinny: 13

Diet: 42

Weight: 36

Pound: 22

Thin: 10

**Overall Number of Words Implying Weight Obsession: 125 **(Not bad, but could be better. _Progress imperative._)

7) Be less self-centered. It is very important, not only to love yourself, as _Witches in Relationship Ditches_ points out, but also to realize that if you only focus on yourself, you can never fully love another, as _True Love, True Sacrifices_ notes. Do you want the numbers, because trust me, there are NUMBERS.

I: 1,583 (267*)

Me: 376

Myself: 20

Fleur: 173

* This includes the implied "I" in which sentences have no I, but there is an "am." Example: "Am very fat. Hate self."

6% of everything I say is about me.

8) Actually read _Hogwarts a History_ all the way through. Or, or, _or…_ what about _Emma?_ I've always kind of wanted to read that book, ever since Marie-Claude gave me a copy for my birthday 4th year, but I never actually did. I read about the Woodhouse family and my reaction was very much, "Blah, blah, blah—there are no hot guys in this book, only old people and twee meddling little girls, what's the point?" Okay, so my goal is to _become well-read_.

**8:45 p.m.** – In Potions. _J'ai oubli__é__ la raison que je suis ici, mais_ _je __sais__ qu'il y avait une raison! _Evil, evil, evilness and a bucket filled with sardines—I simply am unable to recall whatever it was that made me harbor the desire to do Potions when I could have been reveling in the supreme oldness of the world's _most supreme old person_.

No seriously: I really, really like old people. That's kind of odd, I know, but I grew up around old people like my father's mom: Grandmère Jeanette, who happens to be the second drunkest person I know and my mother's dad: Grandpère Gustav, who is the overall drunkest person I have ever met. Now, when you're like seven, drunken people are really nice. Grandpa was very accommodating and a very sweet person when he was awake—when he was sober he was just cranky, so we traditionally left the door to the wine cellar open. Grandmother's alcoholism just doesn't make any sense whatsoever, however. _How did the Delacour side of the family get so… bad? _Seriously, my Dad is as straight as an arrow, as was his father before his tragic death, so how did his mother become a raging drunk? Anyway, Grandmère Jeanette is very drunk, which makes her more interesting than Grandma Claire, who bakes cookies and all that other boring Grandmother-y stuff. I'd rather have a drunk grandmother who tells me important stuff, like, "Fleur, put those shoes away—all that patent leather makes for a pretty good reflection," and "Honey, go tell your sister that her boyfriend is not edible, would you?"

**10:44 a.m.** – Harry's class is in here now. He must think I'm very strange after last night, come to think of it. I mean, overall, what must his perceptions of me been in his life?

1) I have uttered the phrase _soooo sexy_ during one of his DADA classes, and quite noticeably, one might feel the need to add.

2) I have interviewed him and asked him about the inner workings of his mind as well as whether or not he thinks I'm fat.

3) I have explained to him that he's hot, that his body should be used to his advantage, and that he'll get out of doing any homework if he can "ASP his cute ass out of it."

I'm screwed. (Also, nosy slut.)

**11:05 a.m. **– But what do _you _care? You have a boyfriend, a very _hot_ boyfriend, and with the power of ASP, you can get whatever it is that you want! You know, once you figure the whole thing out. (Both ASP and what you want.) _Exactement!_ Chill _much_, Fleur!

**11:15 a.m.** – Oh, _merde_, he thinks I'm a freak, doesn't he? He must think I'm absolutely crazy or something. God-frick-it, I've screwed up everything—_but there's nothing to screw up because Harry is not your boyfriend_. I'm way confused. The mind reels. When's lunch?

**12 NOON** – I don't think I'm making any progress with my sex-obsession problem. Well, I have kind of stopped thinking of Michael as a purely sexual object, and I spent yesterday thinking about Orlando Bloom as an _actor_, not as a shirtless hottie who should totally take his shirt off more often so I can have a giggle-fit and fantasize. And I spend less time thinking, "Okay, totally wouldn't shag him, but might shag him if there was no one else on the island…"

But then there's the fact that I keep on thinking about Harry. And you know, in a kind of purely sexual way. Seriously, all my sentences about Harry are variations on: "Harry… hot… sexy… sweaty… God, I want his sex," you know? So maybe I'm just sex-obsessed with Harry!

God, that's wrong. I need to go… wash my soul out, that's it.

**12:15 p.m.** – I couldn't find a way to wash my soul out, so I washed my hair instead.

**4:04 p.m.** – I'm wondering now what my ultimate mother figure, Drunken Grandmère, would say in a situation like this? Hm, perhaps I should channel her or something, for a moment of séance-like clarity.

"Grandmère, if you were having sort of sick thoughts about a teenage hottie, except for he was like three years younger than you and you had a boyfriend who was actually in the right age group for you and you _know_ you should stop having a Demi Moore spastic moment and _stick_ with your Bruce Willis, how you would deal with or otherwise squelch these sick yet reoccurring thoughts?"

"Cherie, if the object of your affection is that gorgeous, you should seize the day, lock yourself in a closet with him, and have your dirty way with him. And then you can go shag your boyfriend, okay, chouchou? Now give your grandmère some bourbon."

Whoa, that totally didn't help. _Wait…_

"BOY+TOY = Bundles of Joy, Fleur, bundles of JOY."

Okay, that settles it. No more talking to the imaginary Grandma Jeanette inside my head.

**6:13 p.m.** – Dinner. Sucked. Like. Hell.

Allow me to explain the Suck-Fest that entered into my life the instant I was stupid enough to sit down to dinner with Michael and his newest Flunky, Renée the Cocaine Junkie. ACK! Just the name makes me want to murder someone! _Elle doit mourir, cette putain méchante!_ Good God, what gave her the right to completely throw herself at Michael like that? I mean: what the bloody _hell _was that,?!

SELF-CONTROL.

One of my books says that repeating mantras to oneself is a good way to keep yourself from going crazy and murdering your husband. The author of this book, Agatha Firebrick, knows, because she has almost murdered _her_ husband on several occasions. I completely relate to this feeling because I feel as if I would like to murder that evil _tarte_ right now—the whole paint thinner in the coffee thing is actually starting to look really good.

No, seriously, the entire dinner was: "So, Michael, tell me about Defense Against the Dark Arts. I mean, I did it in school obviously, but I didn't have a teacher like you to hold my attention, and I didn't get to get as… _up close and personal_ as you do…" and "I just think that's fascinating, maybe you could show me that sometime," and "You know, I just love teachers. I mean, I just think it's so noble putting yourself out there so that other people can learn from you… that's really sweet."

SWEET? My bloody sister has crossed every single line, dancing across each and everyone, and shaking her butt in morality's face. I hope she gets what she bloody well deserves.

This is, of course, a right punch in the face.

**6:40 p.m.**

AAC

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: Have finally hit five-foot-eight. This makes me feel much better, as everyone knows that the main requirement of models is to be tall, and anything that I have in common with a model is good, I think.

Weight: 125. I tell you, I am a freakish buoy—wasn't I 125 the time before last??? I can't even rightly tell how much I weigh anymore—this morning it was 120, and then five seconds later it was up to 127, and then after lunch it was 130 and I started weeping, and just now it happens to be 125, so which one ought I to put down? I think I'll average them all. That comes to 125 ½ pounds. Hmm… that's good I guess.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Well, I am quite too angry to be all slaggy and lust after people. I'd rather imagine Renée's face getting hit with a baseball bat.

Cyber-boyfriend: He is at the point of theft! He could be stolen at any moment—no time is safe!

Favorite Class SF: Well, I've only got one, haven't I?

Least SF: Potions because it's the only freaking one I have and it sucks.

Pilates Minutes: 25

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 90

Jude-thinking Minutes: 58

HP-thinking Minutes: 134

HG glares: 2

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 83

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 1

Overall Day: _Aujourd'hui c'est tout chier._

**Day Fifty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 16****th**

**By the Lake, V. Close to Spontaneous Combustion**

**11:23 AM**

**11:23 a.m. – **I have been a very annoying assistant all day I must confess, and insisted on taking _une petite_ break just now to, well, sit by the lake and stare at Michael and Renée. Michael must just not have noticed that I'm here, because he hasn't said hello to me, and seems to be overly focused on Renée. All right, the truth is: I saw them out the window in the Potions Room and told Snappy-kins that I had to take a tinkle. So now I'm out here behind a tree trying to make sure Renée doesn't do the dirty with Michael, which might be a little bit easier if, you know, he was aware of my presence.

Oh well.

**11:27 a.m.** – What the ruddy hell? She's got her hands all over him! Damn her—she's clinging to his arm like it's her life support. They're walking around the lake, and I'm sitting behind a tree all stalker-like.

But I've got a right—I'm the girlfriend.

**11:30 a.m.** – What would Grandmère say? God, I know she'd have some sort of advice for me now.

"Fleur, if you don't do something now, you'll end up like 'Grace,' alone and living with your gay roommate. Move, kiddo, move!"

Well, if Grandmère thinks it's what I should do, who can deny the wisdom of a woman whose favorite pastime is drinking?

**11:32 a.m.** – Merde. Still completely haven't moved. What would I say? "Oh, Michael, I was just hiding in the bushes and I saw you and my ho-bag sister walking around the lake, so I thought, 'Gee, Fleur, leave them alone together and you're screwed,' so I'm here now?" Right, because he totally wouldn't run away kicking and screaming.

I must find someway to play this cool. Have I learned nothing in effing ASP?

Okay, well, I must—quite obviously—not look like I was hanging around here jealously. Jealousy is not good at all. Besides, it's only kind of hot when guys are jealous—men don't like to be treated like possessions because it interferes with their perception of their wild, untamed manliness. Also, just like he cannot feel possessed, I cannot allow him to believe that he has full possession of me. I must show interest in something other than Michael.

**11:33 a.m.** – Jacques is here. Can I show interest in Jacques? Hmm… Michael has shown evidence of suspicion over Jacques, who is undeniably sexy creature who cannot control aforementioned sexiness. Perhaps I shall laugh aimlessly with Jacques and fawn over him while walking past Michael and Renée, and just casually notice them over my shoulder as I'm walking away with Jacques. Yes!

**11:40 a.m.** – Mission Keep His Interest was a success. Jacques agreed (after much begging) to be my pawn for a while and we walked around the lake _just_ where Michael and Renée were walking. Jacques was just like, "So I said, 'Tony, there aren't any Bengal tigers in Antarctica,'" and I just started laughing hysterically. We were doing the arm-in-arm thing, so we looked very couple-y. You know: kind of Charles and Camilla _during_ the royal marriage type thing? And we just walked by them and I didn't even give them a glance until I casually bumped into Renée's shoulder, turned around with Jacques and said, "Oh, hey guys," and turned around again, at which point Jacques made some mumbly comment that I could barely hear and I started laughing again. Michael had a bit of a deer-in-the-headlights look going on, so I think he got the message. Maybe now he'll leave the awful skank that is my sister alone.

**12 NOON** – Jacques has just now given me a long speech about how I oughtn't to be manipulating my boyfriend, because manipulation is something Renée would do. "Well, what else did you want me to do? Stand back and watch her throw herself at him?"

"I thought you were past all of this—all the mind games," Jacques protested, giving me a very stern look, as if he was my big brother or something. "And besides, you can't drag _me_ out every time your boyfriend can't keep his hands off your sister."

"Sure I can, and if you're supposed to be my best friend, why can't you do this for me?!" Out of sheer frustration, I buried my face in my pillow. God, I don't know why Jacques and I get into all these bloody fights lately. I mean, _really_, we're good friends, we get each other, but we're always fighting now, and I don't have half a clue why—but he seems to resent me or something. It's just like… I don't know.

Jacques just sighed and sat down. "Okay, Fleur, if he's spending every waking moment just gaping over Renée, then maybe you should just call it quits with him." And there he goes, saying it like it's the simplest thing in the entire fricking world.

"Call it quits?" I repeated, stunned, as anyone in their right mind would be at such a ludicrous suggestion. "Jacques, are you mad? Why would I subject myself to a life of utter loneliness?"

"Good God, he's not the _world_, Fleur. You could get another boyfriend in an instant, so why are you sticking with one who doesn't pay you any attention and is flirting with your sister? Your sister's always going to do what your sister does—you've just got to choose a boyfriend who cares about you enough not to fall for all the crap she pulls, okay? So maybe he's just not right for you."

"But, Jacques, he's perfect for me!"

Jacques looked like he was only barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes so furiously that he could see the front of his brain. "Fleur, he may be smart, he may be funny, and sure you may think he's attractive—but that does _not_ make him perfect for you."

"Oh my frick," I thought—"I'm in for the Superficiality is not the Answer lecture." Jacques had gotten up again and was pacing, a sure sign he was just about to get all philosophical and practical, and you _know_ how much I hate it when he gets all practical. You know, some days I think that Jacques would be much more fun if he were drunk.

Jacques just gave me a look—like "I know what you're thinking, and sure, whatever, I get it, but just listen, okay?" And then he sat down again (I swear, I wanted to just yell "Choose one!" at him) looked at me and said, "I know you think I'm being a complete prat right now, but I've got my reasons, okay?"

Okay.

**2:45 p.m.** – Poussière has just arrived with a copy of _Independent: Women and their Gradual Disjunction from Men_ and _Who Says I Need You?_ Is this some kind of hint-hint? Anyway, they're both from Cousin Louise, who has just been jilted by her fiancée (according to latest news from Dad) and is very pissed of at men at present. I suppose that this would explain these books, but whatever. I'm going to start reading _Who Says I Need You?_ because that title is so much more interesting.

**3:02 p.m.** – Back in Potions for some unknown reason. I am just now realizing how utterly disgusting Snappers is looking today. And every day for that matter. Hmm… am feeling generous today after rescuing boyfriend from clutches of wicked sister. Perhaps will give Professor Snape a big fat extreme makeover.

Necessary Procedures in Giving Snape a BFEM

By F. Delacour

1) Find some way to make him wash his hair. Greasiness is unsettling. There are some truly wonderful hydrating shampoos that can strip away some of that buildup.

2) Put him on strict meal plan. I suspect him of having some form of anemia. Pale skin, awful fingernails—can all be cured with folic acid, etc.

3) Ugh, we must find a way to make him look less "Gothic Schoolmaster." I mean, sure whatever—you're a teacher—don't get _carried away_ with it! Must take the creep shopping, perhaps for color.

**5:05 p.m.** – Harry's class is in here now! Damn, why am I so weird about this? I should not be having such a monumental spaz every single time I see that pillar of pure attraction—damn, damn, damn, stop being obsessed with sex, Fleur, DAMN—why is everything so fricking confusing??

Okay, I'm fine.

**5:13 p.m.** – But now Harry's looking really good. I mean, my boyfriend is hotter than can be believed, but _really_, Harry looks very, very… nice.

That was a stupid choice of words. Nice is one of those words that means everything. Like _putain_. _Putain_ means every bad word I can think of—it's great, super versatile. But at least with _putain_, no matter what they're saying, you know it's not very nice—with nice, it's so confusing.

"So do you like the people you work with?" "Oh yeah, they're… _nice_."

Nice is a word you use when you can't think of anything else "nice" to say. Nice can be replaced with anything—I may say someone is nice but I may mean, "Oh yeah, she's a _bitchy harlot who should be face-down in a river as opposed to screwing up my life like so_." So what are you supposed to think when I describe someone as nice?

What I meant was that Harry looks very hot right now—he's is fully on the Hotness Plateau. What on earth is the Hotness Plateau, you say?

Disgusting Mildly Repulsive Not Hideous Average Pretty Okay Looking Cute Rather Attractive Hot Sexy Ridiculously Sexy

That is the Official Fleur Hotness Scale. The Hotness Plateau is from _Cute_ to the halfway point between _Hot_ and _Sexy_—once you get past that halfway point, you're no longer on the Hotness Plateau—you're on the Hotness _Mountain_. From _Pretty Okay Looking_ to _Not Hideous_ is the Prairie of Mediocrity. After _Not Hideous_, you're in the Valley of Repulsion.

Of the four Hot Zones, I can surely say that Harry is on the Hotness Plateau and climbing the Hotness Mountain. He's scaling that mountain and looking down on those in the Prairie of Mediocrity, but of course, he's so far away he can barely _see_ the unfortunates in the Valley of Repulsion. Naturally, I am at the bottom of the Hotness Mountain fruitlessly chucking rocks at his feet, screaming "STOP! If you climb any higher, I'll _die!_"

**5:20 p.m.** – Harry should be forbidden to look so wonderful. I am fully trying to _not_ be a sex addict over here, because _HELLO_, I should think the Hormone Years are _over_ now! I mean, I'm nineteen, right? And nineteen is practically twenty, and twenty is practically twenty-one, and twenty-one means you can by this time drive, smoke, have legal sex, _and_ drink all across the world—and a person who can drive, smoke, have legal sex, and drink is what I would call an adult—and an adult would _not_ be having these very inappropriate and unprofessional thoughts about their student, because the years of Hormonal Crushes and Sex Obsession are the years of adolescence! And I'm practically an adult!

As an adult, I have the right to contribute to this society, and I say that I should be able to proclaim Harry's sexiness fully illegal! Look at him—he's inviting my attention! He is just _asking_ for it now! And Damn Snape and his horrible hair and complexion and the fact that he is _blocking my view_ will drive me crazy until the end of time.

**5:45 p.m.** – Came back to the room and found a bright purple book sitting on my bed. Naturally, I figured it was Cousin Louise trying to tell me that all men are scum and that I should just become a lesbian while I still have the chance. (Oh, _Louise_, how I've tried!) Actually, it was _The ASP Handbook_ by Karamus Hooking. Who knew that ASP was actually a legitimate course?

**6:13 p.m.** – Am one and a half chapters into _The ASP Handbook_, which is truly a fascinating book—Karamus Hooking is bloody brilliant and moreover damn sexy. Would very much like to meet him at a book signing and have a casual snog in a v. Renée-type way. Then, we can't base judgment on the _About the Author _flap can we—even if there is a picture. My, my, am backsliding into my obsession, and I _don't_ mean the perfume. Must, as remedy, think something intellectual about… _physics_ or something.

**6:45 p.m.** – Ended up flopping back in bed to finish final chapter of _Halcius Pottotius, Royally Flushed_. It was quite a fantastic ending really and far more satisfying than _HFL_, which left me feeling much hatred towards Athena O'Hereagall for writing Harmonia/Halcius crap. I mean, I _know_ there are people out there who write Harmonia/Halcius stories and crap, but people, do you _not_ see the _allure_ of a Flora/Halcius relationship? DER, people, is all I have to say.

**7:02 p.m.** – Do you have to look tempting and hot if you're going to teach ASP, or would that just be an unnecessary impediment to knowledge? Hm, will consult THE ASP HANDBOOK! (It makes me feel so _empowered_ to say that, as if I'm a superhero or something and I'm shouting at my sidekick, "To the Bat Cave!")

**7:05 p.m.** – According to Karamus Hooking, one's image is very important, one's body is a temple, and it is very important never to let one's guard down—you never know who is watching. I'm guessing that means that I've got to look nice from now on. God, it's like going on a date _every single day!_

If I don't get to snog my boyfriend, I don't think this is a very good idea.

**7:30 p.m.** – I have at last found the perfect outfit—actually, I have no idea how on earth it got to Hogwarts. Maybe it was mistakenly packed into my suitcase by some crazy or my mother or Renée trying to remind me of worse days, but it's my _school uniform_. I hated Pretty Sticks, but you've got to admit, the uniform _is_ pretty "Naughty Britney Spears Schoolgirl." Actually, it's more Naughty Britney Spears Schoolgirl meets Bad-Ass Avril Lavigne Skater Chick. (Remember when we used to think Avril Lavigne was a bad-ass? Let's just go with that!) And what self-respecting man wouldn't go for that kicky ensemble, hm???

**7:45 p.m.** – Have put on uniform and have realized: is same kicky ensemble that broke hearts at Beauxbatons, but _I_ am not the same _girl_ who broke hearts at Beauxbatons. I am _much, much_ fatter. So obviously, I cannot afford to work this outfit like I have worked it in the past, because my HUMONGOUS BUTT is standing in the way! And it is not like you could bounce a marble off of my flat stomach either. Or spend forever trying to find the beginning of my IMAGINARY long, lean legs. _Merde, merde, merde_, where did I go wrong? I must now find a _new_ kicky ensemble, and everyone knows that kicky ensembles of such kicky magnitude only come along every 74 years, like Haley's comet!

**8:00 p.m.** – Replacement outfit was nowhere _near_ as Mischievous Schoolgirl as the first one, and very tame, but whatever; all I'm here for is taking notes and looking pretty, that's all, so does anyone even care? No.

I've already showed Michael the handbook, a copy of which he received as well, and he is now teaching lessons out of it. You can just tell Harry's praying to God he doesn't have to read out of it for homework. I am personally opposed to homework. It's not that distant a memory.

But back to my complaints: _What am I even here for? _Nobody learns a damn thing from me, anyway. Why'd Dumbledore even give me this job if my potential is nil and I don't do anything? I can't teach Harry a thing—and Harry doesn't need to be taught a thing. He's hot and sexy all by his lonesome, thankyouverymuch. He doesn't need any help to harness it, or channel it, or shape it or whatever verb stupid (yet hot) Karamus Hooking used! Have just seen that this entire class is pointless merde with a capital M. This upsets me—perhaps D wanted to give me purpose, and _that's_ why he put me on this case. I mean, it's not like I joined the OOTP or anything, so maybe he thinks that by letting me do this, I can feel like I'm helping the cause or whatever. BUT I'M NOT. And this little ASP thing has totally helped me see that.

OR MAYBE THAT'S WHAT THEY WANT! Maybe they want me to see how useless I am so they can get me to get into action and join the Order. Hm, tricky devils.

_Merde_, Michael is saying something and looking at me and I have no idea what it is.

**8:12 p.m. **– Michael was asking me to take over on Flirting with a Random Important Person, Lesson 3. Wait a godforsaken minute—why did MICHAEL get the TEACHER'S edition, while I got stuck with the crummy _student edition?_

**8:15 p.m.** – Oh wait. They're the same thing. Never mind.

**8:27 p.m.** – Jacques has just dropped by, because now that I've mentioned ASP to him, he has to make it obvious that I'm an awful secret agent and can't keep _secret locations _secret. I've just asked him, "What are _you_ doing here?" in a really scathing way, because I'm feeling very wicked and nasty now that I can't fit into my school uniform properly. He's just said, "I've suddenly become a chronic insomniac with nothing better to do," which is code for, "I figured Fleur was feeling purposeless, so I swung by to play Superhero." Jacques has a saving-people thing. For the most part, I like guys with saving-people things, but I can't fall into Jacques's arms and snog him, so there's no point in _his_ saving-people thing.

**8:45 p.m. –** Had ridiculous breakdown of the Mariah Carey sort and started feeling all bad and horrible and less purposeful than ever, because even Jacques wasn't seeing my purpose, because his purpose for wandering down to the dungeons ostensibly wasn't ME, it was INSOMNIA. Sometimes I get these awful cases of the Mean Reds, but unlike Audrey Hepburn in _Breakfast at Tiffany's, _I don't wake up to George Peppard every morning, and my boyfriend and I don't match Burberry trench coats. So who _really _has a case of the Mean Reds, I ask you! _Moi, bien sûr. _

Unfortunately, did not display such calm, rational logic in the dungeons. Rather, I regurgitated all this stuff about my sadness and purposelessness while the massive amounts of testosterone that surrounded me stared at this estrogen-bomb in human form.

"Jacques, I'm pointless," I sniffled, sitting on Snape's desk, looking sorrowfully on at the continuing ASP lesson. Harry and Michael were practicing lines from _The Elements of Suave_, an exercise which _completely does not require me._ "I'm not contributing to anything. I can't teach, and I'm bad at effing _everything_—"

"You're not bad at everything," Jacques said softly. I sometimes think he has a completely different voice when he talks to me, because he totally reams his tutees who are only bad at the subjunctive.

"Oh, coming from _you_, Mr. Perfection in a Fricking Bucket, with your E is for Excellent Job perfect academic record, and your rakish good looks coupled with Einstein-like brains coupled with musical GENIUS, coupled with that stupid thing you do where you conjugate verbs in like 13 different languages!"

"You can't couple something with that many things—it doesn't work—then it's not a couple anymore—"

I childishly hopped off the desk and stamped my foot at Jacques while Michael and Harry continued discussing Lesson Three. "Oh shut up, Mr. I Have a Point So I'll Wave My So Not Humongous _Butt_ in Your Face and Laugh at Your Inferiority! Besides my pointlessness, my life is a pile of _merde_ with my crackpot-crazy mother, and my ho-bag sister, and such—and we have yet to discuss the so-not-romantic plottage of my life! I'm heinously bored, Jacques—nothing _tragic-yet-exciting_ that belongs on the front page of a _romance novel_ ever happens to me! Why am I so POINTLESS?"

"Not having ridiculous things happen to you doesn't mean that your life has no meaning," Jacques argued. Oh God, I'm so happy we avoided having that absurd Camus discussion again—I would have died. Ahem, which would be meaningless.

"Oh, ridiculous things happen to me, all right. But none of them are romantic at all! None of them belong in an award-winning romance novel!"

Jacques narrows his eyebrows at me, clearly trying to compile a short-list of award-winning romance novels. I sigh heavily, waiting for Jacques' light bulb to go off.

"I've got it!" he says, calling my attention—not to mention Harry and Michael's. "What about the Tristan & Fernando Incident?"

Oh. I'd forgotten about the Tristan & Fernando Incident. So I shut up.

**Day Sixty-Two of Free Independence**

**Friday, March 20****th**

**At Breakfast with J, M, and R**

**6:14 a.m.**

**6:14 a.m.** – Hm. I should have known that Michael would ask about the Tristan & Fernando Incident. I have decided not to tell him anything.

**6:20 a.m.** – You know though, he's still bombarding me with questions even though I haven't said a word about it since last night. "Who's Tristan? Who's Fernando? What happened? Why aren't you saying anything? Why are you hiding this from me? What's going on?"

I can't say I blame him, because I'd do the same, but really, the T & F Incident was _ages_ ago, and hardly even _matters_, so nobody should care about what it is.

**6:25 a.m.** – Ooh, haven't thought about Tristan in forever. I obviously think about Fernando frequently, usually in context of "that disgusting slime ball Fernando," or "that worthless piece of _merde_ Fernando." Also, because sometimes when I'm buying groceries, in between the Muzak the melodic strains of that ABBA song emerge—and so naturally, my mind leaps to Fernando. But haven't thought of Tristan much at all.

Strange. Tristan was so much better than Fernando. But I bet no one even _remembers _Tristan and Fernando, and yesterday Jacques just had a brain leak and the first thing that leaked out was "T&F Incident!" but now he totally has no idea what the T and the F stand for.

**6:37 a.m.** – "Hey, Jacques, do you still _remember_ the Tristan and Fernando Incident?"

Jacques is giving me this look like, "What? Do you think I'm an idiot?" I'm giving him this look like, "Do you want me to answer that?" Of course, after all this look-exchanging, Jacques says, "Of course I remember the Tristan and Fernando Incident—can we please call it something other than the Tristan and Fernando Incident—as you'll recall, I had a starring role."

That's true. If it were a movie, Tristan and Fernando would have been leading men, but Jacques would have at least been a supporting actor.

"So," he begins tentatively, "are you planning on discussing the Great Auditorium Scene with your boyfriend, or have you decided that past is past and you should live in the present?"

"Great Auditorium Scene?" I ask, looking at him rather incredulously. Jacques is admittedly very horrible at making up names, which is a welcome relief as he is always prancing around being perfect at all times. I readily welcome this imperfection.

"I told you: I'm sick of calling it the Tristan and Fernando Incident. It's not descriptive enough."

"_The Great Auditorium Scene?_ It was really more like the Great Fountain, Bedroom, Hallway, Auditorium CRUNCH Scene," I suggested.

"And where on earth did the _crunch_ come from?" he asked. Sometimes Jacques is so inescapably stupid—just because he can't make up names doesn't mean that he should be excused from understanding the names made up by others.

I sighed, "From the delightful sound of F-nando's nose breaking in three places." The "DUH!" was implied. "And I'm not telling Michael _anything_—he had enough time-turner-like Past of Fleur when you came rolling around with all of your random reminiscing inducing phraseology—"

"I seriously doubt that that any of what you just said is grammatically correct—"

"And your Perfecto Fancy Pants Show-Offy-ness that he may feel he has to live up to, and the whole Manly-Man Protector thing that he must now get over now that you're here, being all Manly-Man Protector-ish, because while you're a great Manly-Man Protector, some people need the role more than others—and another thing, you must stop causing so much inferiority in others, because I don't think anyone appreciates your Perfecto Fancy Pants Showy-Offy-ness!"

"Was any of that a real word?"

"YES!"

**7:34 a.m.**

_Pros and Cons of Telling M. about T. and F._

Pro: By telling him, I would be promoting a healthy, respectful, open relationship.

Con: By telling him, he might decide that I have too much stuff in my life and that it's overwhelming (because it is) and _decide he has to take a break_ and because of that break, he finds that Renée is ACTUALLY MUCH HOTTER THAN ME and runs off to Vegas and marries her! (Totally plausible; Renée would thrive in the Nevada brothel industry.)

Pro: By telling him, I would not feel like horrible liar for not telling him if, say, Fernando ever decided to sweep into town and pay his favorite ex a visit.

Con: If Fernando ever did sweep into town to pay his favorite ex a visit, I couldn't brush it off with, "I don't know what he thinks he's doing. But then again, the French do tend to be a little '_woo-hoo!'_ if you know what I mean."

Pro: If I told him, then when Tristan finally paid me a visit (keep in touch _my royal_ _derrière!)_, then Michael would totally understand why I was gazing at him with complete adoration of his pure hotness.

Con: If I told him, then when Tristan finally paid me a visit, the only way we'd ever get to see each other would be surrounded by bodyguards and nuns.

Pro: If I told him, he'd stop asking "Who's Tristan? Who's Fernando? What happened? Why aren't you saying anything? Why are you hiding this from me? What's going on?"

Con: If I told him, he'd still ask, "Are you thinking about Tristan? What about Fernando? I can't _believe_ you didn't tell me what happened. Why didn't you talk to me? Why did you hide this from me? Is there something else going on?"

I'm stressed. I need pills.

**8:20 a.m.** – I couldn't find any pills to my surprise. What kind of stupid castle isn't riddled with painkillers? Especially when a girl could use some Vicodin? Or some Oxycontin? Hell, I will take Ritalin. I just need to be either beyond smashed or ludicrously focused right now to endure this _whole entire long, painful Potions class_.

Plus the whole Tristan/Fernando/Michael thing. I mean, why do New Boyfriends need to know about Old Boyfriends? They don't, right, because they don't and shouldn't care, right?

_This is where someone says, "Right."_

Oh, sod all of you. I'm going to go steal ADHD medication from Colin Creevey's room. He's too happy and hyperactive not to be on meds.

**8:45 a.m.** – Pills, pills, pills, pills! For God's sake, people, bring me some fricking **pills!**

**9:20 a.m.** – Jacques is, very obligingly, brewing me an extra-strength Draught of Peace. Sure, Snappers may be incredibly sick of all the coffee breaks I take, but even if he is, the worst thing he could do would be fire me. And as if _that_ wouldn't be a welcome punishment.

Ooh, potion's done!

Jacques is saying something, but who really cares? All I can concentrate on is drinking every last drop of that Draught of Peace. _Ooh, peaceful goodness_. Now what's that Jacques is saying?

"But just a warning, it's really strong so… don't drink the entire bottle."

_Oops._

**10:30 a.m.** – Happy bunnies fluffy fluff and round and round and round and round… la, la, la… Happy little plot bunnies dancing through the forest… full of snow… and sunshine… LALALALALALA… _ya make me wanna LALA! In the kitchen… on the door… I'll eat the lemonade… I don't like milk but I'll have some more… ._

**12 NOON – **I am in a very white, very clean room. Ooh, looky, looky! It's Madam Pomfrey, isn't it? What's she doing here? Am I in the hospital wing?

**12:05 p.m.** – And LOOKY, it's _Michael!_ And Jacques! They've come to visit me! But why am I here…? _Je suis très confus_—_pourquoi est-ce que je suis ici?_

Ack. My pounding headache has returned… and the room seems dizzy… and Jacques's hair is this funny green color… pretty stars…

**7:54 p.m.** – Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn!_

**Day Sixty-Four of Free Independence**

**Sunday, March 22****nd**

**On My Deathbed**

**12:03 p.m.**

**12:03 p.m.** – I have not moved all day long—and not: "not moving" in a good, warm, fuzzy way either. This is more of "not moving" in an "it pains me to move because I'd rather lie down and DIE, DIE, DIE" kind of way. _How_ could I let this happen?

I keep on saying I'll die, but Jacques keeps on telling me I'll be fine. "You'll get over it, you always do," he says. _I'll get over it?_ Does Jacques honestly think that I'll be able to survive the flower of love being viciously stomped on and ripped into a thousand pieces? Is he that delusional? Has he never read _Gardening and Your Life: How to Reap the Love You Sow_? True love is like Haley's comet and kicky ensembles: it's not something you'll find every day, and when you do find it, you must hold onto like it's the last rose before the winter! You must water it with affection and turn the topsoil of fidelity constantly—and you must never, never, never leave it untended because someone else's prize rosebushes will win first place at the county fair.

And you know what? This county fair, I didn't win first place or second place or even third place. I got _Honorable Mention_, which is code for "we feel sorry for her, so let's give her a prize to make her pathetic life seem meaningful." Why am I such an _idiot_? I'll spend the rest of my life thinking, "Why? What could I have done differently? Where did I go wrong? Did my mom drop me on my head when I was two or something? Did Grandmère Jeanette put bourbon in my baby bottle instead of milk?"

UGHHHH. If this were a blockbuster teen movie, after this much head shaking and bed-ridden wishing, I would be transported back to the nineties to do all my relationships over again.

**12:39 p.m.** – Jacques must stop trying to drag me out of bed. I don't want to get out of bed or go to lunch—eating is no longer important. I just want to waste away like a tragic, romantic figure in a very trashy romance novel until I am nothing but bones and can die quietly, looking very tragic and perfect and pale.

**12:45 p.m.** – All I feel is pain—it's unbearable. I don't know what I'd give if Jacques would just give me my wand back and let me _Avada Kedavra _myself, but he took my wand away for that exact reason. AAAAAAAAAAAH. At this time I would probably be flirting with Michael outside the dungeons while Snape isn't looking, but alas… _all I feel is pain_.

**12:58 p.m.** – I don't know if I'm strong enough to talk about it yet, but I do know that if I don't get it out that I'll spontaneously combust, and that would ruin my wasting away slowly plan. I'm sure my blood sugar has dropped some 50 points, because I haven't eaten since 3 o'clock yesterday.

Michael came to visit me while I was on my happy potion and plastered beyond reason, because apparently (I wouldn't know—I barely remember any of yesterday) I had passed out my way back to the dungeons and had to be carted off to the hospital wing. So I was babbling about fluffy bunnies and happy sunshine—or happy bunnies and fluffy sunshine, you never can tell—and then _I don't know what came over me_.

According to Jacques, this is basically how it happened:

"Thank God you're up," says Michael in a sexy way—because Michael never says anything in an un-sexy way. "Are you okay? I heard you collapse right outside my class."

"Dizzy…" I said in a rather disoriented tone—but then again, wouldn't you be disoriented if you walked into a wall and then passed out? At this point Jacques absently muttered something about the fact that I wouldn't be dizzy if I hadn't had the entire fricking bottle of extra-strength Draught of Peace. Stupid much?

"I hope you feel better—you fell pretty hard, I was afraid you'd broken something," said Michael, which was very sweet of him. I would have told him so if I weren't so INEBRIATED. "And for the sake of your health, I will refrain from asking questions about the 'Tristan and Fernando' incident until you have fully recovered."

Of course, Michael _had_ to go and remind of Tristan. Sure, he could have just said "Fernando incident." Then he'd just get an earful of multilingual curse words—but _noooo_, he had to include Tristan. Excuse my French, _amigos_, but this is where the shit went down.

Being on too much DOP is like being on drugs—DOP is just "dope" minus the E, you see—you say stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid things, like the first thing that comes to your mind. "I miss him," I sighed in what it can be assumed was a wistful, longing way.

"What?"

"He was really sweet. And I miss him. Why did we break up? Jacques, why did we break up?" I babbled.

"Err… Fleur…?" said Jacques in that, "Do you have any idea what the hell you're doing at all?" kind of way. The very least he could have done would have been to fling himself across the room and shut me up right then, but no… I just kept on talking and talking and talking.

"And he was hot. He was really hot too. Not that you're not hot," I said, looking at Michael, who—ACJ (according to Jacques)—looked mortified, "but Tristan was _beyond_ hot—he was like a twelve on a scale of one to ten… God, _why_ did we break up?"

"She's still a little woozy," said Jacques, looking at Michael, who ACJ didn't give a damn about the fact that Jacques was even talking and was still just as mortified as he had been before.

"Hm…" I said, getting dizzier by the second, putting my head back on my pillow, "I love him…" I said. And this, ACJ, is when Michael just left the room. He hasn't come to visit me at all, even though I've been out for a day and a half, and I don't blame him—I'm a horrible girlfriend.

If I'm even his girlfriend anymore.

**2:39 p.m.** – Jacques has just come back from Closet Muggle. Apparently he got me _Elektra_ on DVD, _One Tree Hill: the First Season_, and an outrageous amount of CDs. I know what this means. Michael said it. Michael broke up with me. When Fernando and I broke up the first time, Jacques bought me the first Halcius Pottotius book and our entire mutual CD collection. Wait, no—this could just be a coincidence. After all, I don't see any ridiculous junk f—

Damn. Here comes the Cheetos.

**3:44 p.m.** – I can't take it anymore. We're an hour into _Elektra_ and I just have to know before it burns a hole in me. Sure, it may cause me searing, burning pain to hear it recounted, but _still_ if I _don't_ hear it recounted, wouldn't that be much, much worse? "So how did he do it?"

"Do what?"

"Break up with me," I say quietly, "How did he break up with me?"

"Fleur…" This is Jacques using his "Fleur, I know you don't want to hear this, so why are you trying to pretend like you want to hear this, because after I tell you you're going to be mad at me for telling you" voice. And it's true that I'm probably going to be mad at him for telling me afterward, but I still need to know.

"Tell me," I say demandingly, stopping the DVD right before Jennifer Garner starts kicking butt again and such. I'm quite obviously going to have to pay full attention to Jacques during this particular conversation.

"He… didn't _really_… He just kind of shook his head and wandered away, muttering 'I don't believe this,' but… I don't know… He never _really_…" stuttered Jacques. He obviously didn't want to tell me.

"Give it to me straight," I said, putting on a brave face, all the while knowing that the only thing I'd want given to me straight was the martini I'd need after Jacques finally told me.

"He said, 'Maybe we shouldn't see each other until you've got your feelings sorted out,'" said Jacques.

Well, that's as straight as it comes, I guess. And it's not like I didn't expect it. I mean, _what else_ was he going to say? I mean… But I've never been dumped before. I've always been the dump_er_; the thing with Fernando was mutual the first time I guess, and the second time, _I _chucked _him_. But… _God, being dumped is horrible_.

I just want to crawl up into a little ball and cry.

**Day Sixty-Five of Free Independence**

**Monday, March 23****rd**

**In My Bathroom**

**7:25 a.m.**

**7:25 a.m.** – I'm just calling in sick today. No one ever told me getting dumped felt like this—not even Jacques. When Marie (or as I like to call her, the Nazi Bitch-Queen) did a Mexican Hat Dance on his heart, he just _took_ it. When he and Gretchen broke up, he moped around for _three seconds_ and then he was fine. Why couldn't he tell me that it was this much hell? Did he just not _feel_ it?

And how _can _I feel like this? It's not like I've known Michael forever. He was my cyber-boyfriend from last November until January, and then we met in February… and broke up in March. Face to face, 4 months. It shouldn't feel like forever.

**7:45 a.m.** – He wasn't even that great a boyfriend anyway. I mean, _sure_ he visited me when I was sick… and conjured up banquet-like dinners… and created ridiculously romantic scenarios… and defended my honor by setting certain 7th years on fire… and was generally very hot, but like that's all that wonderful….

_Damn_, why _was_ he so wonderful? And caring and understanding and smart and sensitive? Most guys don't give a crap what you do, but he did. _Damn it_.

**9:03 a.m.** – Jacques's in here, trying to convince me that _no, I'm not sad_ and such.

"Okay, be sad all you want, but _eat_ something!" exclaims Jacques, as if food is really the issue here. He's prepared this ridiculous amount of food that is so disrespectful to my diet. Just because I had a jumbo bag of Cheetos and a liter of Coke yesterday does _not_ mean that I am off the Abs Diet (though no abs have appeared).

"How can you think of _food _at a time like this?! The love of my life has _left _me!!" I shriek in the manner of an insane banshee hag-thing.

"Oh, you don't _love_ him, Fleur," Jacques says dismissively.

"Don't _trivialize_ my _feelings!_ I _love _him!!! And now I've lost him, because of my Draught-of-Peace-induced Stupidity, God-frick-it, Jacques, what if he was The One? AND NOW I'M DESTINED TO BE ALOOOOOOOOOONE?"

"I'm sure he wasn't the one, Fleur—and besides, he can't be all that great if he's idiot enough not to know the difference between _love_ and _luff_." At this point, Jacques has completely lost me: _What's luff?_

_Got to do with it, got to do with it_.

Okay, sorry—I couldn't help myself! When a Tina Turner song is just delicately placed in front of you, it is your responsibility to _carpe diem_. That's one v. important thing I learned from America.

Where _Michael_ is from! Gah! Now an entire _country_ is ruined!!!!!!

**12 NOON** – I'm at lunch, but I'm not eating in memory of what could have been. Wait—can you have a memory of what could have been?

"What's luff?"

"Come on—you say it all the time," says Jacques in a completely unhelpful way.

"Well," I say, thinking back to all the times I could have possibly said _luff_ and not have noticed, "I don't remember any—so what is it?"

"Well, I was just saying, you've got to be a total idiot not to know the difference between _love_ and _luff_. Like when you were talking, you said, 'I luff him,' not 'I love him.'" He raises his eyebrows in a "don't you get it?" way.

"_SOOOO?_"

"So! _Love _and _luff_ are not the same thing. When you say _love_ you mean love, but when you say luff, you mean Will & Grace-love, like 'you're my gay roommate, I adore you and will never have sex with you;' or those shoes make my day, I luff them; or lust as opposed to love; usually preceded by an 'omigod,' with that weird vapid inflection you sometimes take on. _Omigod, I LUFF him! _Luff, not love. L-U-F-F, luff! Luff like fluff! _What's luff got to do with it?_ _Luff will find a way? Luff lift us up where we belong? _Luff is not love! LOVE! L-O-V-E, love! I _LOVE_ YOU, NOT I _LUFF YOU!"_

Michael quickly looks at us in a "no, I'm _totally_ not staring at you" way.

This is going to be hard. Then again, luff is a battlefield.

* * *

**A/N:** I know I'm a Super-Nuclear Nazi Bitch-Queen from Hell for not updating, but other Super-Nuclear Nazi Bitch-Queens from Hell were trying to ruin my life. I love (luff) all of you for waiting! Also, I don't own that horrible Ashley Simpson song--and Ash, I'm sorry for mutilating it.

Koppa: I'm beyond flattered. Unfortunately, at the moment I'm consumed with bile for the male sex, so that's just a matter of timing.

Luff to you all!

PS: To all of you who are worried about the Harry/Fleur aspect of this fic, don't **WORRY!** You will get more Harry/Fleur than you can even handle soon.


	8. April: Wanderlust

**April: **

**Wanderlust**

* * *

**Day Seventy-Four of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, April 1st, 2005**

**At Breakfast**

**6:34 AM**

**6:34 a.m. – **Have got to return to France. Break-up has made me see that. I need to get away—and squeezing in reacquainting my mother with _reality_ doesn't hurt either. I don't know what the hell Renée's going to do without me to torture—she honestly can't hang around Hogwarts any longer—but I don't care. She's not coming with me—and it's better that way.

**6:57 a.m.** – This is good though. Going back to Bordeaux will be a fresh start for me. Okay, it will be like an old start actually—well, like if you had your clean slate and then you wrote on it and then you erased it, but you can still kind of see it, but _mostly_ it's clean—you see what I'm saying?

_Plans for New Life (Well, Old Life, er… Whatever) Back in Bordeaux_

1) Actually read some of those books that I never got around to reading—like _Emma_ and _Northanger Abbey_ and _The Phantom of the Opera_ (which I _told_ everyone I read, but just really looked at the words and then watched the movie—and now I _looooooove_ Patrick Wilson, that hot sexy thing with his sexy, sexy voice—ahem, which doesn't count).

2) _New Goal Weight: 116_. Wouldn't that be nice? I mean, yes, it's completely impossible and I'm delusional to think that I could reach that sacred number, but still, a girl can dream, can she not? You see, even if I only get halfway to 116, I'm still impossibly thin, right? So not succeeding is kind of like succeeding, see? Only, I might only get one-quarter of the way if I think like this, so my goal is still 116. I think. Right.

3) Meet up with Janine again—haven't seen her in what seems like 4, 000 years and a day. Also, she can probably tell me where Tristan and Fernando are hiding out so that I can try and avoid them. Seeing _them_ again wouldn't exactly be the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of my happiness.

4) Cure my mother of whatever disease it is she has contracted, restore my room to its previous condition, and try and steal self-help books from the library.

5) Say hello to Grandmère Jeanette and Grandpère Gustav before they both die. Their livers have got to give out someday, after all.

**8:04 a.m.** – I have just talked to Jacques about my leaving; he's said that he's going back to France anyway, so we could both just arrive in Paris and then take separate flights—me to Bordeaux and him to Lyons, where he has his own freaking apartment. Lucky bastard.

**10:30 a.m.** – Jacques is some sort of travel genius! He's booked us a flight already, departing London on April 7th, which is next Tuesday. It was very considerate of him to get us a plane, as opposed to just apparating, because he knows how much I love planes. Now there's only one problem: Am I supposed to say goodbye to Michael? Now that we're broken up and all? Does he _care?_ Does he _want_ to know if I'm leaving?

_MERDE_. Why am I still obsessing about Michael even though we're officially not dating anymore? _Why, why, why?_ Is he like most narcotics and recreational drugs, like marijuana and crack? Addictive and hard to get out of your system? And if he is, why was this not mentioned in the _Men, the Metaphors_ section of _Witches are from Mars, Wizards are Just Stupid?_

**12 NOON** – I have just asked Jacques if he would like for his ex-girlfriend to notify him if she is leaving the country. "Depends," says Jacques, seeming more intent on stabbing his chicken to make sure it's completely dead than answering my question.

"Ugh," I said dramatically, trying to express just how annoyed I was at this response. _Depends? _Depends are adult underwear, not AN ANSWER TO A QUESTION. "Men _are_ like warning labels: pointless, just like it says in _Men, the Metaphors_," I say, hoping my remark was derisive enough that even Jacques, One-Who-Trivializes-All, got my derogatory message.

"That was a simile, not a metaphor," replies Jacques, eating his chicken now that he's brutally stabbed it to death.

"Similes my _derrière_—answer my _forking _question," I demand, rather loudly and forcefully at that. Why is it so hard for people to answer yes or no questions? I asked a yes or no question and I got "_Depends_." Excuse me, but shouldn't the answer to a yes or no question be _yes or no?_

"Forking?" repeats Jacques.

"I'm avoiding cursing this week," I explain quickly. "But just pick a girlfriend—like Gretchen. If you and Gretchen had just broken up, and she was going to… say Ireland, would you want her to notify you before she got on that plane?"

"I'd be beyond pissed off if she was leaving and decided not to tell me—I might have had something to say to her or something. But I guess it—watch out, Fleur, I'm going to use the D-word—_depends_ on how she said it. The last thing I'd want to hear from Gretchen would be, 'I'm hopping on a plane, so if you want to come declare your love for me in a very romantic, made-for-TV scene, then you might want to do so before 2:35 next Wednesday, okay?'"

"Not needy, got it."

**2:50 p.m.** – Have just happily notified Snape that I will be away from his class for an entire month. He has just told me I am a horrible assistant. I have just said, "Well, why don't you fire me?" He has just walked away grumbling.

**3:05 p.m.** – In the time that I have not being doing my Snape-Free Happy Dance, I have been discussing relationships and breakups with Jacques. This discussion basically consisted of, "How on earth did you get through it? Are men just devoid of emotion?"

"Look, it was difficult, I guess… but you've just got to remember the reasons it didn't work out and not think about what you could have done differently, because it couldn't have gone differently anyway, your being the person you were at the time it was."

"Wow," I said, marveling at the deepness of this statement, "did you get that from a self-help book or something?"

Jacques gave me this completely mocking smile. "Actually, unlike you I don't spend 75 percent of my time taking advice from people who have killed their husbands."

"Shut the fork up," I said dismissively.

"The fork wasn't talking."

I hate men. I really, really do. They're all evil, insensitive pigs who care about nothing but things making sense and grammar and football and such. So I told Jacques this—very rudely, in French. "Well, it's your fault for walking straight into it," he smiled, in that infuriating _hee-hee, I'm a jackass and I love it_ way.

"Jacques, when you point a finger at someone, there are three pointing back at you—and one of mine that is sticking straight up."

Jacques just shrugged. "True."

**Day Seventy-Seven of Free Independence**

**Saturday, April 4th, 2005**

**In My Room, Putting My Fat Ass to Good Use**

**8:37 a.m.**

**8:37 a.m.** – If your ass deserves its own phone line, zip code, and talk show (as it is the size of Texas), then you should be able to use it to close your evil demon suitcase, right?

THEN WHY THE BLOODY HELL WON'T MY SUITCASE _FRICKING_ CLOOOOOOOOSE?

I am calm. I am centered. I am one with the universe.

_WHAT THE HELL AM I TALKING ABOUT?_ I am not one with the MOTHERF—

Calm. Centered. _One_.

**10:00 a.m.** – Jacques stormed into the room when he heard me referring to my suitcase as a "forked up son of a bitch." From the Quidditch pitch.

But it doesn't matter because no one can close that son of a— Suitcase.

**12 NOON** – Holy Mary Mother of God! Jacques has done the impossible! He has closed the suitcase from the fires of hell! Of course, after this he had to turn to me and be like, "So whatever happened to not cursing this week?"

So I had to be like, "Whatever happened to you shutting your mouth? What about that?"

But then he had to be all, "When did we establish that?"

So I was like, "Why don't you establish your way up out of my business, Jacques!"

_And then me and my Homey-Gs were all like, "Fo shizel!" and I was like "Why you be hatin'!" and we bounced up into my crib. Sup yo! Yo what? Yo MAMA!_

I am so beyond in for another grammar lesson from Jacques.

**2:05 p.m.** – I seriously have to figure out whether or not I'm saying goodbye to Michael. If I am, I'm going to need some time to prepare. Not that I'm going to do some big formal thing or anything. I mean, I'll have to play it cool.

Oh, who am I trying to kid? I don't know the meaning of the words "play it cool!" If I try to play it cool, I'll probably come off sounding stupid, and it'll be this horrible, _awkward_ scene.

Me: Um, hey.

Michael: Hey.

Me: So… how've you been?

Michael: Good.

Me: Oh, okay.

Michael: See you around.

Me: No, actually, I'm going back to France.

_Silence_

Michael: Oh.

Me: See you, then.

Michael: See you.

_Instead of:_

"Fleur walks along tragically, having reached a level of desperate, attention-seeking thinness. She is lugging one suitcase behind her (and is making Jacques carry the other two) and making her way through the door."

Michael: Fleur!

"Fleur turns around suddenly. She sees Michael, who looks sweaty and hot from his strenuous exertions in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. What these exertions may be, no one knows."

Michael: Where are you going?

Fleur, tragically: Back to France.

"Not only is she tragically thin, but she has acquired a voice that is whispery, faint, and thin-sounding."

Michael: But _why?_

Fleur: There's nothing keeping me here anymore. After ("it becomes painful for her to speak") _what happened between us_, it became so easy to see that I'm needed back in Bordeaux, that I need to be with my family—that they need me. I have to leave, Michael, I _have _to.

Michael: No. Stay with me, Fleur. You cannot know how much I love you. I was a stupid, insensitive pig, who did not deserve a tragically thin goddess like you. If you leave me now, I will have nothing to live for… please stay, Fleur, please.

Fleur, her heart wrenching with indecision: I'm so sorry, Michael, but I must go.

"Fleur heads out the door, leaving Michael looking after her, thinking of what could have been."

So naturally, one comes to the decision that I _cannot_ tell Michael goodbye. I should just conspicuously disappear so that he can come running after me shouting "Don't go! Don't go!" at the top of his lungs, looking sweaty and hot from his exertions in the DADA classroom. And I've got to leave anyway, to punish him/make him want me back. Yes. Mm-hm—is _brilliant_ idea.

**3:27 p.m.** – Okay, so I have to just not say anything. At all. About leaving. To Michael. Got it.

**4:12 p.m.** – And that means no hints.

**4:34 p.m.** – So saying "By the way, I might not BE HERE NEXT WEEK SO DON'T COUNT ON ME BEING HERE," just as Michael passes by is out of the question.

**5:14 p.m.** – And spending all your time musing, "Oh, how I miss Bordeaux—I MIGHT GO BACK AND VISIT SOMETIME," is also out of the question.

**7:02 p.m.** – Can I like, casually mention it in ASP? I mean, seeing as how it's work-related and such…?

**9:39 p.m.** – This ASP lesson, we are teaching Harry about appropriate ASP skills to be used at appropriate ASP times. Such as: _Don't use the Sexy-Sexy Wink in the presence of a person you perceive to be Person of Consequence Type Two: Shy and Unused to Sexiness. Instead, try the Sexy-Cute Smile and gradually work your way up to actions of the Sexy-Sexy magnitude_.

"Why are we teaching him this?" I mumble. "I mean, he's like Jacques: he cannot control his sexiness. So he's sexy all the time. So who can resist him?"

Michael glances over at me. Ooh, shivers: he's so hot even now. "Jacques doesn't exactly have girls falling all over themselves about him."

"Are you kidding me? There used to be a poll over who could get into his pants first. I would definitely say Jacques has girls falling all over themselves about him. And in case you haven't noticed, some members of your fan clubs have retreated."

"Fan clubs?" both Harry and Michael say at the same time.

"Yes. Your fan clubs. The Ravenclaws have stayed loyal to their respective clubs, but all the Hufflepuffs have abandoned your causes and rushed off to fawn over Jacques and his cute butt."

"His cute butt?" repeats Michael; he's soooo_… something_ since we broke up, but I can't figure out what it is.

"Yes. His cute butt. Not that I'd hop into bed with him, but it's not like you can go around denying sexiness all over the place. You've got to be aware, and I'm very aware of Jacques's cute butt. The fact that it does nothing for me is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant," repeats Michael in that skeptical professor way, which is very hot, but that I should stop thinking seeing as how we're _no longer seeing each other_.

"Is there an echo in here?" I say, giving him a look. Come to think of it, I am probably obligated by the code of separation not to give Michael looks anymore. Hmmm… why isn't there some kind of Constitution for his kind of thing. God-fork-it.

"Did the two of you break up or something?" says Harry. He looks sweet today.

"Okay, Harry, the second lesson we're going to learn today is tact," I say with a smile. _A smile that masks my true heartbreak and despair._ Sorry, couldn't resist the tragic romantic novel moment there.

Harry smiles back. Has he learned nothing? That was the _Sexy-Sexy Smile!_ You can't just go around using the SEXY-SEXY SMILE! It's too overpowering! "Sorry," he says. But he's not sorry. If he were really sorry, he wouldn't have just taken out the stun-gun of hotness and shot me with it.

"I forgive you—now frolic along: be sexy. Wait! _No_, frolic along and _control your sexiness_—_that's_ what I meant to say."

"Whatever happened to _not_ controlling your sexiness?" asks Harry. I swear, say the word sexiness too many times and it will start sounding really funny.

Sexiness, sexiness, sexiness, sexiness, sexiness.

Damn. Now it sounds like a naughty Spanish word.

"Well, it's different for you. We've already made you acknowledge your sexiness, so you can't pull off the whole, 'I don't know I'm sexy, so I'm not going to care about how sexy I'm being right now' deal. Instead you have to pretend you don't know you're sexy and totally control your sexiness. It's a raw deal, yes, but there are perks. You know, just as long as you never, never _ever_ say, 'I'm too sexy for this class.' You know: EVER."

"What?"

"Oh my. I'd forgotten that you were never exposed to the Wonderful World of VH1. _Or _Right Said Fred. How unfortunate," I say. I might as well be talking about orphans in Liberia: that's how sad life without VH1 is.

"Really? Because I found the whole 'on the catwalk, yeah' thing a little disturbing," interjects Michael.

"What are you talking about?" asks Harry. And now we have unwittingly confused him. How great of us.

"_I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy it hurts?_" says Michael, hoping that the line will trigger a memory of the Right Said Fred song that is just _so_ wrong, even though we both know that it won't—which is cause for much sadness.

"_And I'm too sexy for this song?_" I add.

"WHAT?"

"Nothing," Michael says, quickly.

"Never mind," I smile.

"We never said anything."

It's approaching ten, so we head for the door, Harry going one way towards the dorms and Michael and I going in another. We couldn't help ourselves; we both spontaneously erupted into: "I do a little dance on the catwalk, yeah!" as we walked back to our respective rooms. God, I'm going to miss him.

_Je fais une petite danse sur la passerelle, oui! Je fais une petite danse sur la passerelle, oui…. Parce que: Je suis trop sexy pour ma chemise, trop sexy pour ma chemise… tellement sexy, il fait mal!_

**Day Seventy-Nine of Free Independence**

**Monday, April 6th, 2005**

**In My Room, Contemplating Important Things**

**10:50 a.m.**

**10:50 a.m.** – To tell him, or not to tell him: that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of getting on that plane without saying goodbye, or to take arms against all the rules of Tragic Romantic Figures around the world, and by opposing end them? To say it, to wonder no more?

GAH!

**12 NOON** – I want to know the depth of his feeling for me! I mean, does he still care about me? Does he regret breaking up with me? Maybe he wants to get back together with me and he's too afraid to ask me?

I am so confused!

**2:57 p.m. – **In my ultimate confusion, I turn to Jacques, my savior and confidante. "I don't know whether or not I'm saying goodbye to Michael and it's driving me _crazy_," I say, which is just a hint—but a fairly obvious one.

"I thought you were," he says, eating a bagel. God, guys have it so easy. I mean, _think about it_. They don't have to worry about when their significant other is going to pop the question, they do all the asking out, they don't care about what they eat, they don't look in the mirror and go, "I'm fat," they get to keep their last names, on average they still get paid more, and they pee standing up. I would totally rather be a guy.

You know, if I didn't have to forfeit being in love with Orlando Bloom and such. Then again, gay guys have less perks.

I should be a lesbian.

**4:45 p.m.** – I've just fully realized that if I were a lesbian, I wouldn't be able to have dirty thoughts about Orlando Bloom. And what's life without that?

**6:06 p.m.** – Then again, if I were a lesbian I wouldn't be having these huge Michael problems. _THE ONES THAT SHOULD HAVE ENDED WHEN WE DID!_

**6:12 p.m. – **Jacques is slightly disturbed that I just stood outside my door and screamed, "Michael Turner, you are a narcotic drug!" to the fourth years passing by, but what_ever_. At least I picked that one over, "Michael Turner, I just want you to know that because of you, I am seriously considering becoming a LESSSSSSSSSSSBBBBIAAANNN! A HUGE, SAME-SEX SHAGGING LESSSSSSSBIAN! A Rosie-O'Donnell-loving, Will-And-Grace-watching LEZZY!"

That would have really scared the fourth years. I'm going to go listen to some Britney Spears.

**10:17 p.m.** – Grrr. I ordered a Magic-Proof iPod from Closet Muggle, like, a week ago, and it's not here yet. I remember, in my order I specified that it should be delivered to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—

Oh, hee-hee, to the Dungeons.

Now I have to go back to that devil place. You know what? I shouldn't have to deal with this: I should be in Bordeaux, relaxing and eating crap and not having to look good because who am I looking good for? No boyfriend, no worries. All men are trouble. I should be a Grace and get myself a Will and be happy.

I'm going to start with my Magic Proof iPod (with 10 pre-ordered songs!). No better way to start anew than with a bunch of kick-ass feminist songs, right?

**Day Eighty of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, April 7th, 2005**

**Sitting on my Suitcase in Humiliation**

**1:06 a.m.**

**1:06 a.m.** – Ended up having to sneak down to the dungeons and retrieve my iPod from where it had been delivered. So I was admiring its mini-pinkness and listening to the Top Ten Power songs I had ordered in the depth of my emotional break-up-induced distress. Because by this time I had completely figured out the way it was going to be: Why should I be stressing? I am a capable, contemporary, independent woman who should concentrate on making herself the best she can be. I don't need a boyfriend to validate me!

Unfortunately, I just happened to be thinking this just as _Love is a Battlefield_ ended and _I Am Woman_ began. And they're not called power songs for nothing—they're incredibly inspiring. So it is completely not my fault that I started singing, "I am strong—_strong!_ I am _invincible!_ I am WOMAAAAAAAAAAAN!"

"That you are," said Draco Malfoy, standing in the doorway, as I danced around in The Naughty Pajamas.

"_What the hell_? Wh—wha—what exactly are y—you doing here—_now_ at this moment—just a question, you know—seeing as how you're here… _now at this moment_… why _are you_ here now at this particular point in time, just a question?"

So what? I _babble_ when I'm nervous!

"Why? Are you not enjoying our midnight rendezvous?" he said sleazily, walking into the dungeon. It's amazing how it suddenly struck me just how dark it was.

"No, actually, I'm getting a very Stephen King feeling right now…," I said—not betraying my nervousness, of course. "Hey, you're right. It's midnight."

"The witching hour," said Draco.

"And you're out of bed. Hm, I think I remember something about that being in '_The Beginner's Guide to Teaching.'_ Oh right: it's forbidden, isn't it?" At this point, Draco shifted uncomfortably, which promptly spread the smell of his Melvin Klein Wizarding Cologne all over the room. "Now let me see," I said, suddenly gleeful, "four—no, _five_ weeks of detention. Oh, oh—_and_ you have to spit shine all the trophies in the trophy room twice a week every week. And you're on cauldron duty too. And if you fail to do any of these tasks, then… I give… Professor Turner full permission to… whip you. Yes, I think that'll do. OH WAIT BEFORE I FORGET! Sixty points from Slytherin for this. And twenty more because you bother me."

"That's not fair," Draco muttered.

"Now, now, Draco, if life were fair then it wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

**4:02 a.m. – **Wow, that was just about equivalent to three hours of sleep. But I can't sleep: I close my eyes and I dream about Michael. I _see_ him and he's standing there, looking perfect, fiddling with his tie in that infuriating way—like he knows I have a thing for ties or something—and you know, it makes me realize that I don't want to be away from him. I mean, I _miss_ him, and yeah, we're not together anymore, and wasn't that just a huge misunderstanding? Wouldn't it be just fantastic if I could tell him that and we could get back together? I mean, _yes_, in theory that would be beyond fantastic, but I'm leaving for Bordeaux in like 12 hours, so HOW THE HELL CAN YOU GET BACK TOGETHER WITH SOMEONE AND JUST LEAVE? You can't right?

RIGHT.

So I should just say goodbye? Or _not_ say goodbye? And miss him so badly?

Damn it, damn it, damn, damn, damn. This sucks. I need to just go on my damn vacation. Damn.

**5:19 a.m.** – But I've read _Men are from Mars, Women are From Venus_ (it was nowhere near as good as _Witches are from Mars, Wizards are Just Stupid_ in case you were wondering) and you're supposed to let guys be Martian rubber bands and pull back, ready to snap back when they've pulled away far enough. And I think Bordeaux is far enough! So I should go, have fun, drink lots, come back, and Michael will be here, all Martian and snappy.

Snapping back to me. Right.

**6:00 a.m.** – But that book was bad! Really bad! And really boring! And it was written by a _man_! What do men know? They know _nothing_!

Or do they know _everything_ and insist on hiding it from us?

Okay, so this guy is a man, right? And this man is therefore qualified to write about the way men are, because he's a man, right? But men are stupid. However, he understands the male brand of stupidity. And can translate it into what we women should do.

Or maybe all the men in the world are pretending to be stupid and this book was part of the male plan to make women look like utter fools by believing all this Martian rubber band crap. So all men are pigs. And I should be a lesbian. And now we're right back where we started.

Damn it.

Hm. Now I'm depressed. Thinking happy thoughts?

Draco being whipped as he spit-shines trophies.

I feel better.

**7:30 p.m.** – Damnation, _damn, damn_, _evil indecision!_ I mean, quite seriously, I just had b-fast with Jacques, and he was just like "Do whatever you think is right, Fleur" when I asked him about the Michael dilemma, which is total bull, right? I mean, that's the kind of thing really lazy people say to get out of giving advice. Like, "Just follow your heart" and "It's not my place to tell you what to do." Like, that time Janine was at a restaurant, and she asked, "What should I get?" to the waiter, and he just replied in his own little suave way: "Well, the salad is good, a wholesome healthy mix of three different types of salad and four vegetables; the pasta is divine—the cook, a world famous chef, has won awards for it; we have seventeen different soups—"

And Janine, turned to him, all _The Ice Queen Cometh_ about it, and said, "I _asked_ you what I should get. Not what was in your _freaking_ salad, you idiot. Men are stupid; get me a waitress, dumb-ass."

Admittedly, Janine is a bitch on PMS. But who isn't? Once, I started crying in Potions and screaming that nobody respected my pain, but that kind of thing is natural, I guess—_mm-hmm_, this is going to be _soooo_ uncomfortable for Jacques when he snoops through this later…

**8:12 a.m.** – Standing outside the dungeons, biting my nails furiously. Ewww, I know. I never used to bite my nails. You know, until I saw someone doing it in some movie as a manifestation of their nervousness. Maybe it was _The Parent Trap_.

Why am I trying to figure out what movie this is from? I'm frazzled out of my mind. I need to express my frazzle-ation. Hold on—I need to scream at the wall.

No, really: I'm sane.

Harry's coming out of the classroom, looking like walking sex, and _sigh_, I can't even care… What does that say about my current emotional state, that I can't even properly appreciate sexiness anymore? Wait a minute—is he actually stopping?

"Hey, Fleur," he says, looking at me in that sweet, concerned way of his, "are you okay?"

Do I look like I'm not okay? Do I looked disheveled or distracted or something? I'm going to look like such _merde_ when I arrive in Bordeaux, then, and Mum will get to criticize me. Or maybe, since she's _très_ Zen-like now, she'll just tell me she loves the natural no-makeup "looks like _merde_" look.

"Okay is _not_ the word," I sigh, because that's all I can do now, in an expression of my angst. Well, if I've got to spill to someone, why not Harry—he's here, isn't he? "I don't know what to do at all."

"About what?" he says. We just keep walking—I'm not any surer of where we're going than I am of anything else.

"I'm leaving today—I'm going back to France. And I really don't want leave without working things out with Michael, but I'm going to be on a plane in an hour and a half, and I just want to know he's… he's going to miss me, you know, that someone's going to miss me, you know?"

"Yeah, I understand," he said as we walked out into the snow. _SIGH_, there's probably no snow in France now. There's a lot of things I'm going to miss, it turns out…

"I guess I just wanted this huge, fantastic movie scene, you know? I'm walking towards the door, dramatic music playing, and suddenly Michael screams out from the back of the room, 'Fleur! Wait!' And I turn around and he looks into my eyes and—but you know, it doesn't matter, because it's not going to happen, because… because I guess we're over."

Harry smiled. "Well, Fleur, how can he say goodbye if he doesn't know you're leaving?"

"What?" _OH MY GOD, _that makes _PERFECT SENSE!_

"How can he—"

I started jumping up and down in the snow for sheer joy. "Oh, Harry, you're a GENIUS!" By this time he seemed just a little bit freaked out, but he still had that sweet smile thing going on. "You can't know how much I adore you right now!" I screamed, still jumping up and down for sheer joy. And then, because this is just the way I was made, I did something stupid.

In my immense excitement I grabbed him and started spinning around like I was six years old (I admit, I had sugar for breakfast, so this is not completely my fault), until I fell over. (Ack, I'm dreading telling you this…) So he reached his hand out to help me up, and (ack…) I _kissed_ him.

On the mouth.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

And then I ran away. I mean, before I ran away, I'm sure there was a brief look of utter and complete panic on my face as I realized what the hell it was I just did, but after that I ran away. It was kind of like "YAY!" then PANIC then, "Thanks for the advice, bye!" and _then_ I ran away.

Aw _merde_.

**9:45 p.m.** – So Jacques was like, "WHAT THE HELL?" when I explained the whole thing to him, which I did kind of like this.

"I kissed him," I said, speeding up next to him with beyond-long strides.

"Who?"

"Harry. Now let's keep walking—I've got to get to the dungeons to talk to Michael," I said, continuing to walk at turbo-pace.

"WHAT?" he gasped, turning around and stopping me in my tracks with this deer-in-the-headlights look on his face— "You did WHAT? WHY!"

"I don't know," I cried helplessly. "I don't know why I do any of the stuff I do! We were just talking about Michael, because I didn't know what to do, and then he made everything seem so simple—and you know how much sugar I had for breakfast! And I started jumping up and down and getting really excited and I just—I just _kissed _him! Oh God, Jacques, what am I supposed to do? I didn't _mean_ to!"

"Okay, okay, calm down—I know you didn't," he said, "but why are you going to see Michael?"

"Because I have to say goodbye," I explained. My happiness at finally having found a solution to this particular dilemma was _slightly_ diluted by the fact, _oh_ I _made out with his student!_ God-frick-it, why can't anything in my life just be _NORMAL_ or _HAPPY_ or _GOOD?_ Why must everything be so damn complicated?

"Oh, so you've finally decided on that then?" he said.

"_Oui, oui, mon ami_, and then I can get on that plane and forget about all of this for four whole weeks…" I sighed. I really should stop doing that—it's become like a disease or something. Irrepressible Sighing Syndrome. "And Michael and I will be back together and Harry will have forgotten my temporary insanity and I can come back here all composed and thin and well-read and everything will be fine."

"Okay sure," said Jacques, not sounding incredibly convinced.

"And besides, I can just tell Harry that I probably had some sort of synaptic misfire that day," I said happily.

"Do you even know what that _means_?"

"No and neither does he, and that's what matters," I said contentedly, walking ever onward—because that's the success of Arithmancy teachers all over the world.

"Besides, I can't think of anything that you might have had a reaction to. It's not like you've never had sugar for breakfast before—" I started to protest, but then I realized he was right, so I shut up. "Is there anything you did differently today?"

"Well, I got my monthly shipment of _Madame Matilda's Magical Mesmerizing Love Perfume_ today," I said. "It's supposed to come in every month on the first, but I swear, the people at Madame Matilda's are _soooo_ _unreliable_—"

"Do you have it with you?" asked Jacques _très_ apprehensively, as if he was a scientist on the verge of discovering the cure for Irrepressible Sighing Syndrome.

"No duh, Jacques, it's the single most potent love perfume in the _world_, I carry it with me _everywhere_," I said airily, cautiously removing a bottle of pink perfume from my handbag, which Jacques promptly snatched from me. "Hey, careful with that! That's 20 galleons worth of L-O-V-E right there, buster!"

Jacques spend the next _two-thousand years_ reading the label. "I swear to God, Fleur, can you read?" He pointed to the words **SIDE EFFECTS** in bold.

_May cause impulsive, impetuous, irrational, overly friendly and/or amorous behavior, as well as hiccups, weight loss, and irritability. If you are pregnant, nursing, or may become pregnant do not use the perfume._

"Holy _merde_, this thing causes _weight loss!_" I shrieked.

"So not the point, Fleur," Jacques said exasperatedly, pointing at the _may cause overly friendly and/or amorous behavior_ part.

"But I've been using this thing for _years_!" I objected, wondering if it could possibly be true—would I _seriously _have to stop using _Madame Matilda's Magical Mesmerizing Love Perfume?_

"That explains a lot about you," Jacques said.

"But _yay_, now I can tell Harry that my tonguing him was an adverse side effect!" I exclaimed.

"You did WHAT?"

"It's not like I put my tongue—" I started to say, but then I realized he had, so I shut up.

"You have no shame, do you?"

"No, but I do have a winning smile," I said, flashing him my winning smile as I passed by one of those humongous mirrors. "Ew, is that _breakfast_ in my teeth? I TONGUED THE BOY WHO LIVED WITH **BREAKFAST** IN MY TEETH?"

"Shh! Do you really want the _whole_ world to know?" he warned—and this coming from Mr. "Would you Like to Post that in a Chatroom, or do You Think You Told Enough People?"

"Hm, I think I'll put it on a T-Shirt: _I'm the Girl Who Kissed the Boy Who Lived_. And _you_ can be _The Boy Who Knows the Girl Who Kissed Boy Who Lived. _And Renée can be _The Slut Who Is Unfortunately Related to the Girl Who Kissed the Boy Who Lived_. And Michael can be—Michael can be _The Boy Who Knows Nothing about the Kissing Incident with the Boy Who Lived_."

"You're insane, right?"

"No, _you're_ insane for being friends with me," I retorted, continuing on my way to Michael, vaguely wondering whether or not I was attention-seeking-ly thin enough to do this properly, or how the _good_ scenario in my mind had gone—all I could remember was the "Um, hey" version of my playing it cool, which—you know—wasn't cool at all.

"So what are you going to say?" asked Jacques, hands in pockets, looking _très _Serious College Student, like _Gilmore Girl's_ "Dean" _à la _Harvard.

"I'm going to tell him that I'm leaving, but I didn't want to leave having screwed things up and that I'm prepared to try again with an open, honest relationship if he's ready to meet me halfway," I said slowly. There was a long pause. "This is the part where you say, 'Oh, that's so mature, Fleur!'"

"Uh—"

"I swear to G, Jacques, you're so unsupportive—it's like you don't_ want _me to be happy, sometimes, you know. And it just really makes me upset—"

"Fleur…"

"Because you're like my best friend, and I just want to be sure that I can always count on you to respect my decisions and not think that I'm crazy _just_ because I use perfume with questionable side effects or have a questionable sex obsession or engaged in _questionable_ activities with—"

"Fleur, turn around."

I did as I was told—and, as always, there was a not-so-nice little surprise behind me. "Oh, ha-ha—hi, Michael!"

"Hi."

And then we just stood and looked at each other in that tension-ridden way that exes (and especially ex-sexing exes) always look at each other, as if we're trying to send each other telepathic messages even though in the wizarding world we _know_ that doesn't work.

"Michael, I'm going back to France today," I blurted out. He started to say something, but I cut him off. "And just hear what I have to say before you say anything, okay? I miss you. I miss you a lot. And I hate it, I hate missing you over some stupid misunderstanding about absolutely nothing except the fact I seriously should not take any Draught of Peace anymore. And I think that maybe we could… you know… start this thing over and… well, I thought we had something god, however incredibly short-lived our whole _face-to-face_ relationship has been, and I know that it could be great if we just tried again, so… I just want to know if you think we should try again."

Michael smiled— "Floo me the instant you get to France," he said sexily.

"YIIIIIIIIPEEEEEEEEEEE!" I shrieked flying into his arms. "I promise you won't regret this," I said enthusiastically as Jacques kind of stood in the background with this "_if they start making out, I'm leaving_" look on his face.

He laughed before letting me go—"You smell really good." I love it. Typical dumb guy comment and I still love it. I stuck my tongue out at Jacques— _See_: _Madame Matilda_ never fails!

**10:00 a.m.** – Naturally, I was on my way out the door when Renée sidled up to me with that "Hee-hee, I love to cause trouble" look on her face. "So where exactly are _you_ going?"

"Back to Bordeaux," I said evenly, repeating SKANK-KILLING IS ILLEGAL, SKANK-KILLING IS ILLEGAL to myself as my new personal mantra.

"My God, France to London and now back to France? What are you, Virgin Mobile?"

I smiled acidly, "So how long have you been waiting to say that?"

"All my life," she said with a _très_ witchy smile. She abruptly reminded me of the St. Pauli girl. "Well, anyway, little sis, I'll miss you," she said, oh-so-Splenda sweetly.

"No you won't," I replied.

"Yeah, you're right—no I won't," she said, nodding her head in agreement. "Well, there's an entourage of hot jailbait that won't flirt with themselves! So see ya when I see ya."

"See ya when I see ya," I nodded, feeling content, though as I walked away I felt slightly disturbed by how little evilness and hostility there was in that farewell. But, since skankicide (see skank-killing) is illegal, I decided to keep walking—and instead found myself rooted to the spot. I looked down and saw the flamingo pink bubblegum that was magically fused to my heels. So I de-gummed them, shot Renée an underwear-freezing spell over my shoulder, and kept walking.

Though by the sound of Neville Longbottom's shocked scream, I'm guessing I missed.

Ah well…

There's nowhere to go but up, right?

* * *

**A/N:** All right, well that's about it for now! I unfortunately will be spending the next 3 weeks with snooty geniuses who have nothing better to do than say, "My SAT score brings all the boys to the yard! My ACT score is better than yours! Damn right, it's better than yours! I won't teach you--because I'm a horrid snooty rich kid!" Then again, they all probably spend all day cooped up in their rooms filling out college applications and won't even catch the reference. Your reviews will keep me going amidst a world of turmoil and Fricking Calculus! (Does anyone understand why anyone would choose to take a college course in Calculus? I went easy on myself and chose debating, so if I come back and I'm witchier than before, NOT MY FAULT!) And you evil people who visit this story (300 people today!) and don't leave reviews (that's 300 lost reviews, people), I despise you. It's people like you that make me want to stop writing altogether. 

Well, much love to you; sorry for the crazy long author's note. Pray for me, or the Nazi Math Witches will murder me in my sleep muttering "damn writer" under their breaths.


	9. Planes, Pains, and His Lucky Charms

**Planes, Pains, and His Lucky Charms

* * *

**

**Day Eighty of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, April 7th, 2005**

**On a Plane!**

**12 noon**

**12 NOON** – Love planes! Love planes! Love planes! I don't know what Muggles are always complaining about when it comes to airplanes, because even though they generally don't have chocolate frogs or treacle tarts or pumpkin juice (which would upset all those Hogwarts students, because they are oddly obsessed something that doesn't even taste that good), I still love the experience. I mean, though the ear-popping sucks, it can be avoided with gum, and though sometimes the pilot is stoned and leaves 55 bags at the terminal, or you land in the wrong city, or your airport is snowed in and you end up having to take a six hour bus ride to your destination, as long as you aren't sitting next to someone who is a total _Unmentionable_, it's not like you'll die—you might actually enjoy yourself. And as long as you don't hate the person next to you and you get to know them a little bit, you can always _complain_ to them when your ears pop, or the pilot is stoned and leaves 55 bags at the terminal, or you land in the wrong city, or you have to take a six hour bus ride to your destination!

And if you do hate the person next to you, ASP your cute ass out of it! And then when you're comfortable when the flight is underway, you can look out the window and enjoy the view and read your book and think of where you're going and… come _on_, the food isn't _that_ bad! Maybe I'm just insane, but I _lurve_ airplanes.

**12:35 p.m.** – Yippee-aye-ay! Jacques is sitting next to me, constantly warning me that if I keep on going "YIIIIIIPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" as I've been prone to doing lately, some people are going to guess that I love planes, and then they're going to think I'm crazy.

"But don't you just _love_ planes? I mean, _flying_ without wings, or brooms—"

"Fleur."

"And it's totally better than levitating, because there's no thinking involved and no wands—"

"Fleur…"

"Because magic is fantastic and all, but—"

"Fleur, this is not Wizard Air—people are going to think you are a _nut job_," Jacques says, giving me that exasperated look that he seems to love handing out: Are you being annoying? Have an Exasperated Look!

"_Fine_," I reply grumpily. "But I'm still getting peanuts."

"They stopped giving out peanuts on airplanes because too many people were allergic to them." Jacques settles back into his seat and opens up his Muggle newspaper. WHAT! Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck are so _not_ married!

"WHAT! How dare they get rid of peanuts—they're the perfect balance of fat and protein and they're totally Abs Diet! They're also South Beach Diet! I mean, this is just wrong—it's violating a woman's right to choose! I have a right to eat peanuts if I so desire! This is America—"

"No, Fleur, this is British Airways."

I shake my head and mumble. "This is _so_ un-American."

**1:29 p.m.** – Are we there yet?

**1:45 p.m.** – No, seriously. When is this plane going to land so I can catch my Grand-Ps before they get—_gasp!_—sober. They are totally no fun when they're sober. But then again, it's past noon, and as long as it's past noon, they're probably drunk.

**2:03 p.m.** – OH SHISA! Time difference! The chance of sobriety lives!

**2:15 p.m.** – Jacques has just leaned in to point out that I've spelled _shisa_ wrong. Apparently, it's _scheisse_. But does that make sense to you? Who would spell it like that if it sounds like "_shisa!_"? But Jacques's like, "No, Fleur—I know my German swear words."

And it's true—he knows his German curse words. He once used all of them at the German shepherd that attacked him and ripped his shirt off, much to the delight of the very female German exchange students.

**4:05 p.m.** – Jacques has reassured me that my grandparents are probably not sober and I have nothing to worry about. He has also reassured me that if ever my plan for fixing my mother gets off-track, all I have to do is Floo him and ask (well, grovel a little bit) him to come to Bordeaux and help me, and he'll be there. He has also reassured me that yes, it's spelled _scheisse_.

So now that I'm perfectly reassured, I'm completely ready to say goodbye to Jacques and Apparate over to my front door. Right. Definitely.

**4:08 p.m.** – No, I'm totally ready, I'm just warming up.

**4:10 p.m.** – I'll be going any minute now, just any minute now, because I'm not frightened, scared, or nervous at all.

**4:11 p.m.** – Oh dear. Jacques's just said, "Fleur, if you don't get a move on, I will have to destroy your secret stash of Nutri-grain bars that you _think_ no one knows about."

GASP! How does he know about my secret stash of Nutri-grain bars that I thought no one knew about? OH MY. Does he know about the secret stash of chocolate too?

"Seriously, Fleur, leave now or the secret stash of chocolate goes too."

AAAAH! "Okay, _fine_, I'm going, I'm going…"

**4:12 p.m.** – Oh my. Standing outside front door. Everything looks the same, from the outside at least, but looks can be deceiving. Like, our next door neighbors look like just incredibly attractive male models, but they're really just hot gay guys. Terry and Carey, the Very Merry Fairies. Oh, and their dog Madonna. Who's named after, well, Madonna.

But that's beside the point—I'm just going to step forward and knock on the door. Right-o, then. I'm stepping forward, and my hand is mere feet away from the door. Okay, a couple more steps then…

**4:30 p.m.** – I eventually got all the way up to the door and, shocker though it may be, _knocked_. Sighing in the way that only survivors of ISS can, I stepped inside as the door opened. The instant my foot hit the carpet this fabulous tingling sensation shot up my leg, like a butterbeer/draught-of-peace feeling only less "go to your head" and more "stuck in your foot." Slightly dazed, confused, and giddy, my took another step inside—_zap!_

"YIIIIIIPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Suddenly, my mother and a tall, thin, weirdly limber-looking man rushed into view, linked arm-in-arm. "Oh, congratulations, Aylesford!" my mother exclaimed.

_Aylesford?_

The stranger named Aylesford beamed and smiled down at my new, thin, happy mother.

_OH MY GOD._ This can't be what I think it is. Has my mother taken a _lover?_ That is too disgusting to even think about. EWWWWW. That's like Draco-in-Sexy-Trousers level of disgustingness—or like, Snape-level disgusting. OH NASTY.

OH MY GOD, is this why she is oh-so-thankful for the world now? Is that what she was referring to when she said she felt "liberated and free?" And didn't she say, "I have decided that our house needs an entirely new look, a look that reflects this lively and rejuvenated chapter in the book of my life?" A new chapter in the book of her life? A chapter in which she abandons the man who loves her too much to go for someone who can provide her with constant sex every night? Oh my God. Oh my God. I mean, she looks great now, obviously, because she's been on this "Body by Me" diet (Note to Self – Try this diet sometime), so it wouldn't be hard to find a young, shiny brand-new boyfriend. How old is this Aylesford? Thirty? Thirty-five?

I take a step forward, completely unsure of what's going on here, and _zap_, another tingle shoots up my leg, sending me to a world of giddiness. "Woo-hee!"

This shady Aylesford character grins broadly and waves his hand around in the air. Right above his head a bright purple, blinking neon sign appears—4507 PEOPLE SERVED quickly turns into 4508. _Umm… QUOI?_ I AM SO CONFUSED.

"What was that?" I said, pointing at my floor, then at my leg, then at the floor again, gawking at the two of them, still standing like square-dance partners.

"Oh that?" smiled Aylesford like a creepy car-salesman. "That was a floorgasm."

"A _floorgasm?_"

"A floorgasm!" exclaimed Renée, bouncing into view, wearing a ridiculous black-and-white tracksuit that made her look fabulous and probably would have made me look fat and stupid. _What the hell is she doing here?_ "Courtesy of Aylesford, founder of Aylesford Interior Design, guaranteed to get your house up-to-date—or your money back! Aylesford Danforth is also the founder of Aylesford Aerobics, guaranteed to get your but in shape—or your money back! Some conditions apply."

"Holy snow, Renée—what are you, a walking ad?"

"You're just jealous because Aylesford is working for me and not for you," said Renée, putting her infuriatingly perfect hair up into a ponytail, doing the whole fake-exercise thing. Like sometimes, I put on exercise shorts and running shoes so it _looks_ like I've been running, when I actually have no intention of actually working. Just looking cute just in case a really hot athlete who actually exercises says hello. I bet she isn't even going to exercise.

"I am _soooo_ not _jealous_," I said, putting my own hair up into a ponytail, so I could do that whole fake-exercise thing too. Hah! In your face, Renée Delacour!

"Come on, like you don't envy the fact that I've taken advantage of Aylesford's _brilliant_ program and you've been toughing it out with a big orange book," smirked Renée, doing that whole fake-sympathy thing. Good God, she fakes _everything_. I bet she even fakes floorgasms. "Come on, Fleur," she says coyly, "join the thin side."

"I'll show you what side I'm on you, evil little—"

"Girls! Girls!" exclaims Mum, dropping Aylesford and rushing over to us, bursting with happiness and joy. "Now, you know I hate to see you fight."

Um, noooo… since when have you _ever_ said that?

"Now, Aylesford-dahling, could you give Fleur the tour of the house? She hasn't seen it since before it was remodeled and renovated," explained Mum.

AYLESFORD-DAHLING? God no! My mother can't have a lover—it goes against every principle there ever was in my family. OH CRAP, my family doesn't _have_ principles, God-frick-it! Where are my drinking grandparents? Where are those dipsomaniacs? Where are Grammy and Grandpa! I want my Grammy and Grandpa and they had better not be sober!

**4:48 p.m.** – Am currently Flooing Jacques, seeing as how this is a definite emergency. Will transcribe this conversation as it goes—I mean, you never know when Jacques is going to say something brilliant and profound.

Jacques: What? Fleur, why are you Flooing me? It's only been half an hour.

Fleur (dramatically): And what a half an hour it's been!

Jacques: Oh, God, Fleur—what's happened now?

Fleur: I think Mother's having an affair with her interior designer!

Jacques: WHAT?

Fleur: I know, I know, I know. And you've got to help me! I don't know how these things work—I mean, how do you stop an… an…

Jacques: Affair.

Fleur: ACK! I can't even understand how my mother would ever be… be… be doing _that_ with her interior designer! Slash personal trainer!

Jacques: OH.

Fleur: Oh? What do you mean "oh?"

Jacques: I mean, personal trainer. Personal trainer makes everything different.

Fleur: What do you mean?

Jacques: I mean that everyone sleeps with their personal trainers. After all, a personal trainer does spend the entire time… well, doing suggestive things… and… there's touching and… oh…

Fleur: Are you as uncomfortable as I am right now?

Jacques: Oh, so much more uncomfortable.

Fleur: Right, well you have to get your cute ass over here NOW.

Jacques: You think my ass is cute?

Fleur: No, cute is just a word that _goes_ with ass. Like sugar goes with spice and salt goes with pepper, cute goes with ass.

Jacques: Okay, well my cute ass is going.

Fleur: Well, good because my cute ass is waiting.

Jacques: We should stop saying "cute ass" now.

Fleur: Yeah, definitely.

**4:50 p.m.** – Thank God in heaven, Jacques is here! I rush up to him and throw my arms around him in made-for-TV-movie fashion and kind of discreetly whisper in his ear, "He's the odd, limber man in the living room—save me!"

"Okay," Jacques said, pulling away, "but I'm not exactly a professional in the interrupting affairs department. I don't know, how old is this guy?"

"Thirty-ish," I replied.

"Okay, okay, we can work with this—Renée's twenty-two right? She's totally legal, right?" asked Jacques, walking through the newly remodeled kitchen, bypassing the newly remodeled cabinets.

"Oh God, Jacques," I said loudly, spinning around suddenly, "you are _not_ are not interested in Renée. That is sick—she is my _sister_, for crying out loud!"

"GOD! Of course I'm not!" exclaimed Jacques, as if the idea of guys wanting to sleep with my sister was a completely novel concept. Where has he been the last, um, NINETEEN YEARS OF MY LIFE? "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"A heterosexual male," I said.

"Well, yes, I am that…"

"Okay, sexual orientation aside, shut up and help me!"

"I'm trying to, I'm trying to," Jacques reassured me, opening the bathroom door and yanking me inside. "Now—YIIIIIIPEEEEEEEE!" I kind of just stood back and let Jacques have his space for a while. "What the bloody hell was that?" he asked.

I smiled weakly. "Floorgasm?"

**5:00 p.m.** – So now, Mum and Aylesford and Renée and Jacques and I are sitting in the living room, feeling uncomfortable and not saying anything. Well, Mum, Aylesford, Jacques, and I aren't saying anything—Renée can't stop blabbing over Aylesford.

"I swear, my buns are tighter than ever!" shouted Renée delightedly, doing a slutty little dance and shaking her ass all over the place. "Hey, Aylesie, don't you think my buns are tighter than _ever_ thanks to your _sexy_ little program?"

"My God," I whispered, leaning over towards Jacques, "it's like she'll flirt with anything that talks."

"Isn't that what you've been saying your whole life?" smiled Jacques. "And I have an idea…"

"I mean, seriously, you won't believe it, but now I have 10 percent body fat! Can you believe it? Ten percent! I've never felt better about myself—I'm now a size one and a half, which is a major improvement from when I was a size two and a half last year. Gosh, Aylesford," she smiled suggestively, "I don't know how I'll ever… _repay_ you."

"Fleur, you now suddenly have to go to the bathroom and I urgently have to accompany you," whispered Jacques.

"I now suddenly have to go to the bathroom—Jacques, will you accompany me?" I said forcedly.

Mum smiled and waved us along as Jacques and I left the room. Out in the kitchen, which by now seriously does not look like the kitchen I left behind, Jacques said, "I've got it. We get Renée to seduce Aylesford."

"What?"

"I mean, obviously she's already got a crush on him, we just have to fuel that crush and get her to… er… steal Aylesford away from your mother."

"Okay, let me get this straight. You want me to convince my sister to convince my mother's personal trainer to cheat on my mother with my sister so that I can stop my mother from cheating on my dad?"

"Um… _yes_," said Jacques.

"Yeah, I'm going to go find my drunk grandparents—they're the only sane people in this house," I said, heading out the door. "You've never met them have you?" Jacques shook his head, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Then stay for dinner."

**5:47 p.m.** – "We sometimes like to indulge him by letting him do small things around the house. Today he's making dinner, so don't eat _anything_," I whispered to Jacques. Jacques was staring at Renée, who was doing Aylesford's Supreme Booty-Shaking Workout. "Jacques, did you hear me?"

"Yeah, uh-huh, sure."

"He's making spaghetti, but don't eat it—it's probably forty percent alcohol, okay? And don't drink the water either, because it's probably not water, since Grandpère has long since forgotten how to use the tap or where water comes from. And the applesauce, is probably not completely apples, okay?"

"What the hell kind of family do you come from, Fleur?" asked Jacques, but he was still staring at Renée's "Supreme Booty-Shaking."

"Well, basically drunks, goodies-goodies, sluts, and bitches," I said, looking around the room. "And druggies, some druggies too. But aren't you glad I'm so normal?" Jacques turned to me. "NO, GRANDPÈRE, NO! DO NOT PUT THAT NEAR THE STOVE! THAT IS MY SPECIAL LIGHTER THAT I GOT IN AMERICA! PUT THE LIGHTER DOWN!"

"Yes, I'm so glad you're normal," said Jacques.

"Quit staring at Renée like that—I won't be able to eat a thing at dinner tonight," I complained. Not only have I built up a strong immunity to Grandpère's cooking, but I also intend to survive on the stash of Nutri-grain bars and chocolate that is upstairs in the secret compartment behind the painting in the library.

"I am not staring at Renée," said Jacques, completely lacking conviction as Aylesford yelled at Renée to keep shaking her ass. "I'm not staring at Renée at all," he persisted, "just because she's in my direct line of vision does _not_ mean I'm staring at her."

"You sicken me, Jacques," I said, shaking my head. "All you think about is sex."

"I'm a heterosexual male. It's my job."

Renée stopped shaking her butt and jumped up and down with enthusiasm and screamed, "TCHIA! AYLESFORD 2005! YES!"

My mother, putting two plates down in front of me and Jacques, smiled. "I swear, that workout does wonders for _everyone_, especially Renée. Aylesie is seriously considering making her a spokesperson for Aylesford Aerobics." She leaned in closer, "They've already copyrighted the phrase 'TCHIA!' so be careful, because every time you say it you pay Aylesford and Renée a Knut."

"I am not paying Renée to say something as _stupid_ as 'TCHIA!'" I protested. Then I exasperatedly pulled a Knut out of my pocket and put it in the collection jar that Mum had placed in front of me.

"I feel so inspired! So fabulous!" exclaimed Renée across the room. "I feel—I feel_—" _

"This is one of Aylesford's brilliant designing ideas—there's the most fabulous spell—you just wait and see," said Mum enthusiastically. Suddenly, the room was booming with sound.

"_I feeeeeeel good! Nana-nana-nana-na! I knew that I would, yeah! I feeeeeeel good! I knew that I would, yeah! I feel good! SO GOOD! I knew that I would!"_

"Wait, are you trying to tell me that Aylesford cast a _singing spell_ on this house?" I asked incredulously. Does no one but me see what a bad idea this is?

"Yes, to get us all inspired to lose weight and do what we want with our lives, what could be more inspiring than the sound of music?" said my mother, like this was the single most rational thing she'd ever said in her entire life. I liked her better when she was evil.

"_The HILLS are ALIVE! With the sound of music… with songs they have sung… for a thousand years!"_

"How do you take this spell off?" I said, covering my ears and looking at Jacques like "OH MY EFFING GOD, DO YOU SEE WHAT MY MOTHER'S LOVER HAS **DONE**?"

"Oh, you can't," said my mother giddily. "Only Aylesford can do that, actually. But you can scream 'stop the music' really loudly and wave your wand counterclockwise and that usually shuts it up."

I sighed and pulled my wand out of my pocket, when my mother stopped me. "What on earth are you doing? Don't you love this music?"

"I love this music almost as much as I loved Fernando," I said sarcastically, "now let me stop it before I go crazy."

"_Can you hear the drums, Fernando? I remember long ago on a starry night like this… in the firelight, Fernando… you were humming to yourself and strumming your guitar.'"_

"Fernando doesn't play the guitar!" I screamed at the ceiling.

"_I could hear the distant drums and sounds of bugle calls were coming from afar… They were closer now, Fernando… every hour, ever minute seemed to last eternity… I was so afraid, Fernando…"_

"Afraid of what!"

"_We were young and full of life and none of us prepared to die… and I'm not afraid to say the roar of guns and cannons almost made me cry…"_

"GOOD GOD! If cannons made you cry, you should see _Spiderman 2 _sometime!" I shouted, still directed towards the ceiling, bearing in mind that I couldn't seem any crazier than the people around me.

"_There was something in the air that night, the stars were bright, Fernando! They were shining there for you and me, for liberty, Fernando!"_

"Stop the music now!" I shouted, waving my wand.

"Counterclockwise, dear," my mother interjected.

"Thanks," I muttered. "Stop the music now!" Slowly the sound of that one most horrible ABBA song died. Oh, well. At least it wasn't "Mamma Mia."

"Awwwww," Renée sighed, "and I just _loved_ that song."

**6:00 p.m.** – Fabulous. Now we can't say the names of any song titles in this household. And whenever you step into the entranceway or the bathroom, you get a magical tingle up your leg. This Aylesford guy is an idiot. Who really needs a MAGICAL TINGLE UP THEIR LEG when they need TO PEE?

"Jacques, what did I tell you before dinner," I said, watching him move his spoon towards the "applesauce," which was more like "apple martini sauce."

"Nothing is safe except the bread," Jacques sighed.

"Exactly. Have another roll."

"It's so good to see you again, Fleur," said Grandpère Gustav. "You've grown so much—when I last saw you, you were this high," he said, bringing his hand down to his knee.

"Grandpère, the last time you saw me was last Christmas," I said. There was a brief, awkward silence. "So, Mum, where's Dad?" I said, giving Aylesford a very threatening look.

"Oh, he's still in Bangladesh," said my mother, stabbing her spaghetti with a fork, and continuing on like she hadn't just mentioned a small, swampy country in Asia.

"What?" I gasped, remembering Mum's reference to visiting there in her nerve-wracking February letter. "How could you just leave him there?" I briefly began thinking that this was part of her and Aylesford's plan, to ditch my father in Asia while they continued their open affair on a different continent.

"Well, you see, _actually_ he's not in Bangladesh—it turns out that when he went to visit Singapore, he was chewing some gum, and public gum-chewing is very, very illegal in Singapore. So the feds apprehended him and he's still in a Singaporean prison sorting all this out with the loony Muggles who work there," explained my mother calmly.

"You let my father go to jail because he was chewing GUM?" I said, gawking at her. "And how can you just _visit_ Singapore from Bangladesh? Isn't it like 2,000 miles away? Why did you even visit Singapore in the first place? What's in _Singapore_ that you wanted to see exactly?"

"Well, I heard they had really good takeout," said my mother.

"My father is ROTTING IN PRISON because you heard they had REALLY GOOD TAKEOUT?" I shouted. "Are you MAD, woman!"

This really is getting suspicious; why is my father in prison 5,000 miles away from here on gum-chewing charges? And why is my mother taking this in stride? And isn't it just a little bit funny that while my father, my mother's husband, is off rotting in some dinky little jail, my mother's personal trainer (_personal trainer!)_ is living in my house?

"You know, dear," said Grandpère, looking at my mother, "I think she's angry with you."

"THANK YOU, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!" I shouted, standing up and pushing my chair back in, red with fury. "If you'll excuse me, I want to be alone," I said, dramatically, rushing out of the kitchen.

My best friend wants to convince my sister to have an affair with my mother's lover, my father is in a prison in Singapore, my house sings to me, I can't use the bathroom without having a "floorgasm," and before I left, I tongued my boyfriend's _student_. What is _happening_ to the world?

**Day Eighty-Three of Free Independence**

**Friday, April 10th, 2005**

**In My Weird New Bedroom**

**8:03 a.m.**

**8:03 a.m.** – My room is so bizarre now. Renée wasn't lying: she really did have the walls painted jet black and a canopy bed carted in here and all my books packed up in big brown boxes. It doesn't even really feel like my room anymore, it feels like some sort of bizarre ordering accident. Since when do jet black and canopy beds go together? So far I've only made a list of things I ought to do to fix it:

1) Try frantically to remove the smell of Renée's skanky perfume from my room and replace it with _Madame Matilda's Candlelight Vanilla Concoction_.

2) Put my Self-Help Books back on the shelf in order of actual self-helpfulness.

3) Change the walls from jet black to some far more calming color, like cream or light blue or something.

4) Get a normal bed.

5) Put up the Orlie and Jude posters that I never actually got rid of. Hee-hee.

**8:45 a.m.** – Went downstairs for breakfast only to discover that Jacques is the only one up, reading the _Daily Prophet_, looking all responsible. I swear, Jacques is going to make a really good stuff businessman someday.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said absently, putting down his newspaper. He smiles. "Nice pajamas."

I nodded airily until I actually looked down and saw that I was wearing my favorite Sintimate lingerie. "Oh! This?" I said, laughing nervously, "This is going to change really quickly—hold on!" So then I Apparated up the stairs zapped on some actual clothes and came back downstairs.

Jacques smiled. "Don't worry, you're not the only one with interesting underwear today," he said, tossing me the paper.

**They're After His Lucky Charms!**

By Rita Skeeter

"What is this?" I asked Jacques, looking at him curiously.

Jacques only shrugged in that noncommittal, "I won't explain anything" type of way that he's so famous for. "It's just something I thought you might be interested in, that's all," he said.

"Fine," I said, sitting down at the table with him and beginning to read. The article was an in-depth analysis of _Harry Potter's underwear_. I kid you not—HIS UNDERWEAR. It was like a teen magazine with stupid quizzes: What does your underwear say about you? Apparently Harry's very attached to his very favorite pair of lucky boxers, the Lucky Shamrocks, which he wears to every Quidditch game. And apparently these boxers have been kidnapped by a crazed fan who wants to do some evil voodoo on them to make him fall in love with her. And apparently there's a thirty Galleon reward for anyone who will return Harry's boxers to him. All I can say is _good luck with that_. Those are Harry Potter's _knickers_, lady—whoever's got them isn't giving them up _that _easily. You have a better chance of finding those boxers on _eBay_ selling for thousands of Galleons than you do of getting them through a reward. Sorry, Harry, your underpants aren't coming back. But there is one thing the article got right: these girls aren't after the Lucky Shamrocks, they're after his Lucky Charms. If you don't know what those are, I am not going to tell you, and you should not be reading my diary.

"You thought I'd be interested in reading about Harry Potter's boxers?" I asked. You know, this is one of those times when I really wonder what Jacques's opinion of me is. Then again, he spent half of yesterday looking at my sister's ass, so he should be worrying what _I_ think of _him_.

"You were, weren't you?" asked Jacques, looking at me in that knowing way.

"Yes… I _was_…" I said in that abashed tone of voice, stealing the Style section from him and sinking into it, thinking very dirty thoughts involving Harry's lucky charms.

**9:00 a.m.** – Jacques and I are now talking about our plan for getting Renée to split up Mum and Aylesford. "Well, you can't just spring it on her," says Jacques, taking a drink from his glass of orange juice. "You've got to sort of be nice to her for a couple of days, make her more inclined to listen to what you've got to say," he advised. I opened my mouth, but Jacques quickly silenced me. "Yes, I know being nice to Renée is no picnic, but neither is having Aylesford here, is it?"

"No," I agreed, because he was exactly right—I was all set to complain about making nice with Renée when I should have been concentrating on the greater good: breaking up Mum and her boyfriend/personal trainer/interior designer.

"Right," he said, putting his hands together like some devious villain Donald Trump mixture plotting something, "so here's what I think you should do. After a couple of days of softening her up, you pull her aside and tell her what you think is going on with your mother and her personal trainer. You provide some evidence so that she doesn't think you're loony. You ask politely for her help, appealing to her vanity above all."

"Appealing to her vanity?"

"Well, yes: 'I know no one could do this quite as well as you could' type things, blatant flattery. You know, go all out with it, and be sure to tell her how pretty and thin she is."

I must have winced or something, because Jacques gave me a very sharp look.

"You're the one who wanted your mother and this interior designer to split up and if you're not willing to be nice to your sister over it—"

"No, I'm willing, I'm willing! I just have to get used to the—well, the _idea_ of being nice to her. I just haven't done it in so long, it's sort of a foreign concept to me."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find the perseverance to be nice to her for two whole days," said Jacques reassuringly. He's very good at assuring people of things—he should become a psychiatrist or a personal therapist, even if he would make a fabulous stuffy businessman or underwear model. Oh, there's an odd combination…

"All right, all right," I said, nodding my head in agreement as Jacques finished off his tall glass of orange juice. "You didn't get that from the fridge, did you?" I asked, pointing to the empty glass in his hand.

"Of course," he said, looking at me curiously, "why?"

"You're going to have a wicked headache later," I said. "Which part of _don't drink anything_ did you not hear?"

"_Nothing's_ safe?" he asked incredulously. "Not even fruit juices? Fleur, we've got to go grocery shopping."

"Oh no, I can't do that," I protested, giving Jacques a pleading "You must understand!" sort of look. I swear, Jacques has never read a self-help book in his entire life. "I already have a boyfriend!"

"What does that have to do with grocery shopping?"

"Oh, everything. Grocery stores are filled with people who only want to meet other people; it's like an alternative, low-key, underground dating service just waiting to burst! I met Lex in the dairy aisle," I explained, wishing I could rush upstairs and find _Love Where You Least Expect It_ and show him the entire section they spent detailing how to find true love in the grocery store.

"Grocery stores are also filled with people who need _groceries_," sighed Jacques. "You can always just avoid the single people."

"That's true—I'll stick next to men with lists and kids and prissy-looking old women," I said, nodding my head.

"I swear, Fleur, sometimes I don't know what to do with you."

**9:45 a.m.** – Okay, standing in the dairy aisle trying to figure out which kind of milk is good to get for current diet and future diets. Skim milk seems to be widely accepted. But what I really want is ice cream. And it isn't totally insane to replace milk with ice cream, because that's like a beverage in and of itself, don't you agree?

**9:50 a.m.** – Jacques has just finished explaining to me why I can't replace milk with ice cream and that I'm to go back and get 2 percent.

**9:55 a.m.** – Jacques has now just finished explaining to me that I can't base my entire love life off of what I read in trashy, grocery-store paperbacks and that if I'm buying one, I'm using my own money. I've just said "Fine, be that way" in the manner of a six-year-old child. Jacques has just said, "You're acting like a six-year-old child."

Well, yes, but do six-year-olds read trashy, grocery-store paperbacks with Regency women being ravished on the cover? Noooo…

**10:35 a.m.** – Up in my room. I swear, of all the trashy books of baseless smut I own, _Point of Passion_ is the most baseless and the smuttiest.

I LOVE IT!

**11:50 a.m.** – Took a break from my baseless smut to go downstairs and confer with Jacques one last time over what to say to Renée, but couldn't find him. Instead found Mom in the kitchen nodding along to some cooking show on the radio. I asked her where Jacques was and she just nodded even more determinedly and said, "Oh, up in the exercise studio, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart_. Shudder. We've got to fix her.

Rushed upstairs because it seems that entire attic has been converted into humongous exercise studio for Aylesford to train and slim down entire family. (Except Dad in Singapore who's still his portly old self and will come back to family full of thin androids, except me, because I'll just walk up to him and pat his shoulder and say, "I'm fat too, Dad, I'm fat too.") So, I get up to attic/gym-place and enter into exercise studio and find Renée doing Supreme Belly-Dancing Workout with Aylesford (who I'm beginning to think is just a pervert if he has Renée belly-dancing and booty-shaking) and Jacques with a ginormous weight bench-pressing or whatever that thing is called.

I briefly pondered over whether or not it would be inappropriate to send Gabby a picture of this while she's at school to cheer her up. I mean, it would be akin to sending me a shirtless picture of Orlando Bloom while I'm rotting at Hogwarts. Mm-hm, I'd definitely appreciate that. And with pictures of Jacques, you can actually see him lifting weights as opposed to completely still Orlando Bloom. So, I eventually decided that for the greater good of Gabrielle's happiness, I just _had_ to take the picture. So I took the camera out of my bag and:

_Click!_

"What the hell, Fleur?"

No seriously, how many times has Jacques uttered that sentence? "It's for Gabrielle," I explained. I pressed the button again and took another picture. "And so is that. And this and this and this. Oh, and this one's for me."

_Click!_

"For you?" he repeated.

"Well yes," I confirmed, "for blackmail purposes."

"Oh, whatever," Jacques sighed, resigned to my freakish ways, going back to lifting weights or whatever it is he does. Gabrielle is going to be ridiculously happy.

But I am going to _Avada Kedavra _myself if something is not done about Renée and Mum, and as Jacques is obviously busy with those large, heavy hunks of metal, I'll just have to figure it out by myself. So I'm going on a walk.

**3:00 p.m.** – Success! I have achieved goal Number Three in my list of _Plans for New Life Back in Bordeaux_ and have met up with Janine again after what seems like 4,000 years and a day. I ran into her on my walk while I was thinking of exactly what one would say to convince manic slut sister to do her maniacal slut thing and steal her mother's man. Ewww. So now, she's in the house right now sitting on my couch, drinking two-percent milk, and listening to the Weird Sisters on the radio.

She's quite jumpy and hyper and excited, kind of like me all the time, now. "So, how about later we go down to a restaurant and terrorize waiters? Or do you not do that anymore?"

"I went away for a while, I didn't get a personality transplant—what do you think!" I said. Despite how horrible it sounds, terrorizing waiters is a really fun way to pass the time. Please don't think I'm evil?

"Thank God! You're the same old Fleur. Now tell me, how's everyone? Renée as horrible and slutty as ever?"

"Sluttier," I replied.

"And is your mum as mad as can be still?"

I sighed wistfully, remembering the fond days when my mother was still insane and wicked. "No… those golden day are long gone now," I replied.

"And is Jacques still as wickedly hot as he was at Beauxbatons?" she asked. It was horridly obvious that this was the question she wanted to ask in the first place.

"See for yourself," I said accommodatingly. "JACQUES!" It really wasn't entirely necessary for me to shout, seeing as how he was just on the stairs, but it is always nice.

"For the last time, Fleur—I am _not_ a dog and I can't just come when you call me," he said. He always says this. But then, he always comes. Does that make sense to you?

But that's not the point.

That's _soooo_ not the point.

The point is this: Jacques stops dead in his tracks on the stairs in his full shirtless godliness. Janine stops talking and looks at Jacques stopping dead in his tracks on the stairs in his full shirtless godliness. Got this so far? Jacques sees Janine looking at him in his full shirtless godliness. Jacques has brief yet obvious flashback to Beauxbatons years and recalls Janine, the sweet, fabulous, wonderful girl that he's always known and adored (you know, when he wasn't off with Gretchen, his actual girlfriend). Janine is looking at Jacques without a shirt on. Their eyes meet, there is a brief connection before they each look away, but a brief moment was all I needed to see. DO YOU SEE THE POINT HERE?

MY TWO BEST FRIENDS ARE GOING GOOEY-GOOEY OVER EACH OTHER!

They are totally not allowed to do this! They are so completely, completely, COMPLETELY not allowed to do this! THIS IS COMPLETELY AGAINST THE RULES!

Don't you see what will happen? Jacques and Janine (damn their names sound cute together) will be so busy being in love with each other that neither one of them will pay the slightest bit of attention to my woes! And everyone knows that Jacques is my substitute brain! So how am I supposed to get my mother back with my father and NOT with her trainer! DON'T YOU SEE THE POINT? So my mother is happy and giddy and with her aerobics instructor/interior designer and this limber thirty-year-old is my STEPFATHER, and my real father is in PRISON in ASIA, and my boyfriend will BREAK UP WITH ME when he finds out I kissed the BOY WHO LIVED whose BOXERS are missing, and my DAMN SISTER will move in and STEAL MY BOYFRIEND, and I'M FAT, and I STILL CAN'T USE THE BATHROOM WITHOUT HAVING A FLOORGASM!

THAT'S THE POINT!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go drink some orange juice.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm baaaack! Gee, Fleur's life really makes mine look calm. I'm so glad my father's not in prison. And that my mother's not weirdly nice (because I was really worried about that). Anyway, all you people who review: I LOVE YOU! And I don't own any of the songs Fleur's house sings to her. Tee-hee! Now, scurry along and review now... :becomes plagued by terrible thought: that is... if you still like me? Okay, this is where I descend into my pit of despair not just at the thought of not getting reviews (because I'm a review ho) but because (shudder) I have to get into a bathing suit soon (further shoulder): go along, review now! 


	10. April Notes

**April Notes**

**

* * *

Day Eighty-Three of Free Independence**

**Friday, April 10th, 2005**

**Kitchen**

**8:27 a.m.**

**8:27 a.m.** – Okay. So I'm sitting here drinking some most-likely (well, hopefully) spiked orange juice, thinking about all these things. And now I'm thinking that I'm screwed.

Oh, hold on, must add something to _List of Things to Complain About_.

Father's in prison… check.

Sister's a bitch… check.

Mother's insane… check.

Best friends getting together… check.

Am fat… check.

About to lose boyfriend _again_… check.

And finally: have never been screwed.

Am beginning to think I never should have told God to sod himself.

**9:00 a.m. – **But then, c'mon, let's think… there is a bright side to all of this. Seriously, there must be—I mean, Jacques gets to be all happy, and Janine gets to be all happy, and I… I get to drown in a huge bucket of misery. Wait, no! NO! There will be no misery today—I've got to pull myself together and take charge and take control and… and… and get my groove back! I mean, supposing I ever had a groove, because quite personally I don't remember ever having a groove.

Can you have a groove you never knew about? Okay, so after I knock back more of this odd-tasting orange juice—it's definitely spiked, but damn, I think I'm immune—I'm going to complete my list of things to accomplish. If that doesn't get me all back in shape (well, at least mentally), I don't know what will. Hold on while I check out what I have to do.

**9:12 a.m.** – Okay, so **Goal One** is that I've got to read some intellectual books. No problem. I'll just have to dig around in the attic and find some intellectual books—hopefully Renée won't have thrown them out. She thinks most books are evil; she has this theory that Gutenberg was seduced by Satan.

Okay, **Goal Two**—lose ten pounds. Okay, okay, this I can do. After all, my mother's… _special friend_ is an aerobics instructor. He's worked wonders for her—AAH! AAH! I TAKE THAT BACK! EWWW! What I _meant_ to say was everyone in my family has lost weight and gotten fabulous so far (stupid size one-and-a-half, ten percent body fat witches…), so why not me?

**Goal Three** was to meet up with Janine again, so big red check over there and now I can get the info on Tristan and F-nando and never see them ever again. Joy.

**Goal Four:** Cure my mother of her disease. Well, that can be done in four easy steps—put a stop to affair with Aylesford, bring Dad back from prison, make them re-fall in love with each other, and Mum will be so cranky at Dad's constant doting that she will eventually revert back to her stressed-out, cursing ways. I can't wait. Also: return room to previous state of normalcy and steal Self-Help Books.

**Goal Five:** Spend quality time with Grandmère and Grandpère before they die of alcohol poisoning.

This is a definite can-do situation, I think. I should stop stressing out. By the end of this month I will be skinny and happy and normal and everything will be perfect and wonderful, damn it. Yes, quite so.

But first, must go question Jacques about the nature of intellectual books.

**9:45 a.m.** – Shudder, shudder—have most mortifying image in my head now and it won't go away! Damn, damn, damn—should have waited until dinner to ask about intellectual books, definitely.

BAH! Went up to my room to see if I had any intellectual books still there and there was this huge shroud-like thing just hovering over the floor, which (thank you, COMC!) I identified as an oh-so-deadly lethifold, so naturally I just started screaming my head off like so: "AAAAAAH!" I shouted, running through the house like some sort of maniac—headed straight for Jacques's room, since I was going there anyway. "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!"

"What is it?" he says all sleepily, getting out of bed. Is it just me, or did he sound oh-so slightly not happy to see me? Because, being myself, I am appalled. However, I was far more appalled when I realized that Jacques _doesn't_ sleep in jeans and a T-shirt.

Which made me begin screaming even louder, of course. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!"

"What the hell, Fleur?" I swear, I am going to start _counting_ the number of times he's said that.

"Put it away! Put it away! Put it away!" I said, jumping and screaming and pointing in a downward direction at Jacques's underwear.

"What?"

"Put! On! Some! PANTS!"

"No seriously, what the hell, Fleur?"

"You, pants. Need pants. Underwear. Mental scarring. Put on some freaking pants!"

Jacques just kind of stared at me for three seconds and then he went and he put on some pants so I could open my eyes. But as if mental scarring like that can be cured just by some pants!

"Okay, fine. What were you screaming about in the first place?" he asked. It has just occurred to me that Jacques should be even more totally mortified than I am, but he is weirdly calm. Must investigate this interesting oddity.

"Oh that," I said, having briefly forgotten the first reason I was having a monumental spaz. "There's a lethifold in my bedroom."

"There's a lethifold in your bedroom," Jacques said in that deadpan, _Holy wow, Fleur, you must be kidding me_ voice of his.

"Mm-hm!" I said, nodding my head in enthusiastic agreement.

Jacques looked like he was trying to figure out some huge, colossal puzzle. "And you freaked out over my—"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

"Do you have a disease?"

"No, I just HATE that word."

"What word? P—"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAH! Don't say that word!"

"You need help," he said finally.

"Well, you needed pants," I replied.

**10:34 p.m.** – So now we're all sitting down at the table eating a super-late breakfast (or early lunch, if you prefer to think of it that way), and I can't get this scarring image out of my head. No seriously; now it's like I have X-ray vision and every time I look at Jacques it's like all I can see is his underwear. Which is so screwed up, of course. Does anybody else have this problem, or is it only me, alone in the universe with a picture of Jacques's underwear?

I am so sick. But I was right—he would make a good underwear model.

**12 NOON** – "Jacques, I am taking you shopping," I announce, beaming brightly in everyone's general direction. It's just too bad that A) Jacques hates shopping, B) my six major credit cards are gone, and C) there are no Wizard Friendly Shopping Malls within like eight miles of here. Oh well.

"Oh God, Fleur, please no," says Jacques. Oh crap. He's making the "Please have pity on me, I haven't eaten in six days, my parents abuse me, and at night I cry myself to sleep—your generosity is the only thing keeping me from death so _please_ don't take me shopping" face. It's not fair how other people's faces can say so much and all mine ever says is "I look fat, don't I?"

"Yes, yes, yes," I say, ignoring Jacques with a smile, "we are going to walk to my favorite store. Or at least my favorite Wizard-Friendly store in Bordeaux."

"Oh, God, what is it?" he said, like he was thinking I was going to say something horrendous like my favorite store was the Happy Meadows Florist Shop or the Best Damn Aquariums Period or something.

I smiled, a maliciously deliciously wicked smile, kind of like, "Hee-hee, hee-hee, you're not going to like what you're about to hear—but _I _will!" Jacques continued to stare pleadingly at me. "You'll see," I replied.

**2:45 p.m.** – "I can't believe you brought me to a lingerie store," groaned Jacques, staring ahead at the huge, lovely, sparkling sign that was before him, beckoning to me the light from a lighthouse, a beacon in a world full of darkness. "I can't believe you made me walk two miles to _a lingerie store_," he said, just as incredulously, obviously unable to appreciate that Drrty is not _just_ a lingerie store. It's the Best Damn Lingerie Store Period! And he should just be thankful we're not buying aquariums.

"Come on, stop complaining—it's not that bad," I said, resisting the urge to smack him, club him over the head, steal his wallet, and sprint to the Drrty-Girl lingerie section for a little personal shopping spree. "And you can't deny the fact that you need new underwear. Briefs, Jacques? _Tu ne sais pas que tu fais,"_ I sighed in sympathy. I mean, what else can you feel for a guy who wears _briefs? _Weirdly tight… _briefs_.

Jacques sighed, about thisclose to getting upset: "There is _nothing_ wrong with my under—"

"C'mon!" I said, grabbing his hand and making a mad dash towards the big red sign that said "SALE!" in humongous white letters. Sometimes Jacques just needs to accept that, at least in the underwear department, I know best. "What you need," I said, turning briefly to him as we nearly crashed into the sign, "is a lot of boxers—and when we get home, we can burn all your briefs."

"Fleur, I may just be hallucinating, but I think we're in a lingerie store and you're talking about burning my underwear," Jacques said.

"Well, what else are we going to do with them? Make _papier-mâché?"_ I briefly imagined a sculpture of Jacques made up entirely of his underwear, but that freaked me out too much and I erased it from my mind. I blinked and then looked out hopefully in front of me, looking somewhat like the man on the _40 Year-Old Virgin_ billboards, and smiling at the wide expanse of what looked like heaven. "Drrty-Boy Sleepwear," I smiled, shaking my head in wonder. "It's so dirty that they couldn't even spell it right."

"Fleur…" Jacques said in that warning tone, as if he was anticipating that I would get that wild look in my eye, grab all his money, and go dancing through the store in pure delight. Er… which I would never do, of course.

I dove right into my task, picking up a pair of dark blue boxers and throwing them at him. "Blue is your color," I said, tossing him two more pairs. "But then again," I said, overcome with the thrill of shopping and the smell of clothes, "so is black!"

"Yeah, sure… Fleur, who is paying for all this?" he asked uncertainly, standing before me holding one pair of underwear in his hand, another draped over his shoulder, and yet another one sitting on his head.

"Well, we're going Dutch, of course!" I exclaimed, pulling the pair of blue boxers off of his head and dragging him deeper into the store. Drrty-Girl and its affiliates (Drrty-Boy and the General Drrty-ness Store) are like the be-all and end-all to undergarments; it's like… it's like… Panties Paradise! Or, you know, something like it. And you know, they sell other _très _Drrty stuff too. "Ooh! Heels!"

"You're buying shoes in an underwear store?" said Jacques, looking at me in that skeptical _she may be insane_ kind of way.

"_Noooo._ I'm buying shoes in an underwear _emporium_," I corrected. I picked up the purple box in eight and a half and squealed delightedly. Kitten heels!

Jacques sighed. "No wonder you were voted most likely to be seduced by shoes."

"Jacques," I said, waving that thought away, "you need some cashmere underwear." I headed due west (you need a compass when you're in an underwear emporium) and picked up a pair of gray boxers. "_Yes_."

"No," Jacques said. It's like he has an aversion to undies.

"YES!" I said, now jumping up and down.

"You are insane, Fleur, absolutely insane," he said, smiling faintly. "Fine."

"Yippee! You won't be sorry! Now for some silk boxers…"

Two hours later we were standing in the checkout line with 23 pairs of underwear, Jacques looking as if he had no idea what had just happened, and me with a humongous smile on my face. Drrty _always_ has that effect on me. "And now my work is done," I said, smiling. "You've got your boxers, I've got my heels, and—" I gasped. What I was seeing couldn't be real, it was—

"Fleur, my God, what are you looking at now?" He was only bitter because the last time I gasped and stared like that, he ended up getting eighteen pairs of silk boxers. He followed my gaze. "_No_," he said disbelievingly.

"Oh my God, Jacques, it's perfect—it's perfect—it's perfect!" I was staring at an absolutely beautiful matching bra and panties set by Victoria's Secret. It was like meeting God.

"Fleur, I honestly think that after buying 23 pairs of underwear and a pair of shoes, it would not be a good idea to get you Victoria's Secret underwear."

"But Jacques!" I cried. "It lifts and separates!"

"I _never_ want to hear you say that again."

"And Jacques," I said, trying out my own pitiable face, "I never told you this, but it has always been my lifelong dream to own a matching bra and panties set."

"Fleur, I think there's a reason you never told me this," replied Jacques, looking insanely uncomfortable—like Remus Lupin loosening his tie, turning magenta, "Wow, did she just say that?" uncomfortable.

"I mean, all my life, Jacques, my bra and panties have never matched," I sighed.

"Stop right there."

"Do you _know_ how it feels to know that somewhere out there exists a cute little set just for you, perhaps red with convertible straps and a push-up, yet with coverage and full support…"

"OH MY _GOD_, Fleur," Jacques said. By this time he looked like a beet, but I was too lost in my reverie to notice.

"But noooo… alas, it cannot be yours and you have to stand by wearing a black bra and _blue_ underwear! A black bra and _BLUE_ underwear, Jacques—do you hear me?"

Jacques sighed, like he was in between a rock, a hard place, and an underwear emporium. "Not today," he said.

"Okay, fine," I said sullenly. "But I'm still getting the shoes."

**4:12 p.m.** – When we got back Janine was sitting cutely on the sofa looking all cute and fabulous and wonderful. Damn her. "Hey. Where have you guys been?"

"Underwear-shopping," I said, "and I got heels."

"Did you get a matching bra and panties set?" she asked, perched on the edge of the sofa, looking at me with rapt attention—the suspense was building.

"No," I frowned, "not today."

"How long does a girl have to wait!" she said, filled with indignation on my behalf. See, everyone but Jacques understand this—there's nothing like a matching bra and panties set to make you feel fantastic. She stood up, giving Jacques one of those looks (GOD! Does everyone have a look? Did they give a look-giving seminar at Beauxbatons that I just _missed_ or something?). "That's cruel and unusual punishment, Jacques," she said, but in a cute, flirtatious way, not a "you suck, Jacques, I hate you hate you hate you" way that it would mean if _I_ said it. Did I say "damn her" already?

He smiled, and I got this crappy feeling, kind of like… I don't know. Never mind.

"Okay, Jacques," I said, dragging him out of the line of fire, "you have to go try on your new underwear." It has just occurred to me how weird that sounds.

Jacques lingered a little bit and then went upstairs to try on his underwear. God, have got to find a new way to say "try on underwear!" This left Janine and I alone "to talk."

Janine giggled. "Do you think he'll model it for us?" Looks like the idea of Jacques the underwear model has struck her too.

"_Ewww_, Janine, that's _Jacques_ you're talking about—try to keep it PG, _s'il vous plaît?_" I said. Ewww… if Jacques and Janine (my GOD, does the cuteness never end!) start going out, she's going to tell me every itty bitty detail. Jacques said this utterly sweet and adorable and romantic thing, because he's fantastic, Fleur, you can't _possibly_ understand, and me thinking "What the hell do you mean I can't _possibly_ understand? He's been my best friend for eleven years, damn it, I know him better than you do!" And then she'll be like "OOOOH, he's so hot and sexy!" and I'll be sitting there having to listen to her thinking, "Shut up shut up shut up." Joy.

"How can _anyone_ keep it PG when it comes to Jacques?" she asked, giving me… sigh… a look. This sucks. Now she's going to constantly going to be making nasty Jacques references. It's going to be… it's going to be like… "Oh my God! Let's play the 'If You Know What I Mean' Game!"

Yep. It's going to be like the "If You Know What I Mean" Game.

"I haven't played that in ages," I said, rather listlessly, but then the thought of my favorite old Beauxbatons game brought me around. How can you not love a game called the "If You Know What I Mean" Game? "But who are we going to play it on?"

"_Jacques!"_

"That's going to drive him crazy…" I said, thinking about it briefly. "Sure," I smile, thinking of all the times we used to play it on teachers in class—every time they said something that sounded dirty, we whispered "If you know what I mean," trying to beat each other to it. Our standing one day record for dirty phrases was 99—but that was at a field hockey game in London. Hello? A game played with a stick and a ball? How can you get under 50?

"Okay, let's creep up on him and bug him to death until he says something dirty!" squealed Janine.

"No, no, no! Easy points if you yell at him. Watch and learn… _JACQUES!"_ I screamed.

Jacques promptly came traipsing down the stairs (fully clothed, much to Janine's chagrin) saying what he always says. "Fleur, damn it, for the last time, I just don't come when you call me—"

"IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!" Janine and I jumped up and down and high-fived each other in that childish, "join the club" sort of way, as if we were in some dinky special. It was fantastic.

"Oh God, not this game…" sighed Jacques. He has bad memories of this game, unfortunately, seeing as how it was always most fun to play it on him. We could always get him to explain things to him and then _just_ as he was getting all serious and everything, we'd both yell "If you know what I mean!" and then he'd stare at us and be like, "So I just explained cold fusion for nothing?" And then we'd nod and he'd be pissed.

I smiled; it almost felt like we were a threesome again (please no one say "If you know what I mean…"), but God knows that never lasts long enough.

**5:56 p.m.** – Good God, Renée is leaning over my shoulder in scary, snooping-mother fashion. "Watcha doing?" she says. Wait, did she lose more weight while I wasn't looking? Okay, **Goal Six**, bump off older sister.

"I'm writing a letter."

"To who?" Jacques would have a fit. He'd be jumping up and down screaming "_To whom! To whom!"_ and then smashing vases everywhere.

"To Dad."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want him to die in prison while Mum's shacking up with her interior designer," I said, turning around and shooting her a glare.

She just started laughing. Is this the typical reaction to a glare?

"You think…" and then she started choking on her own laughter. I took this as a sign that I should just let **Goal Six** run its course. "You think… BWAHAHAHAHAHA!" Finally, after I kicked her in the stomach, she stopped laughing. Unfortunately/fortunately, she stopped breathing for twelve seconds as well.

"Will you help me?"

"Help you what?"

"Help me stop this horrible thing from happening to our family!" I screeched, ready to take my favorite purple quill and jab in into her eye.

"Oh, yeah sure, what do you want me to do?"

"Umm… well, you… and Aylesford… you could…" I trailed off suggestively, hoping my sister's sick mind would do the rest.

"What?"

"You know…"

"What?"

"You could S…" I said, waggling my eyebrows, encouraging my sister to guess the other letters.

She shook her head.

"S-E…"

"Sell, segment, secondary school, servants, Severus Snape, secular…" she said, counting off S-E words absently on her fingers.

"S-E-D…"

"Sediment, sedan, sedation…"

"S-E-D-U…?"

Renée looked more confused than ever. "Okay, well, I don't know any words that begin with S-E-D-U…"

"SEDUCE HIM! YOU COULD SEDUCE HIM!"

Renée smiled her evil annoying smile and pointed her little manicured finger at me. "Hee-hee! I knew you'd do that!"

"AAAH! Will you do it?" I know she's just plotting to drive me crazy with her annoying fake exercising and her belly-dancing and her tall, thin blondeness and her perfection that she's just flaunting all over the place and _now_ she's going to lord this over me like she's… she's… _her!_

"How much?"

"WHAT?" Holy knickers! She _is_ a prostitute! I mean, I'd always guessed that she was because for some reason she's always got so much more money than I do and because… well, _look _at her, but _whoa_… I don't know how I feel about having my sister be a prostitute; I have a feeling she wouldn't be very _Moulin Rouge_ about it either. And she doesn't bring home any hot English writers.

"If I do this for you, what're you going to do for me?" she says, because payment is apparently the first thing that comes to her mind. Shudders… prostitutes.

"I'll be your _bestest, bestest friend—"_

"No. This might just be humiliating for me. As I'm seducing this… _Aylesford_," she replied, a little tiny smile she thinks I didn't see coming to her face, "I'm losing out on potential dates. I mean, that's like one for every day I'm seducing him. Hell, that's like _three_ for every day I'm seducing him. I want three guys for every day I'm seducing him—"

"NO!"

"Fine. Like you could find three guys anyway," she mumbled.

"HEY!"

"Okay, fine then. How's this? I seduce Aylesford, and_ you_ have to go to your Beauxbatons Reunion."

**WHOA.**

**WHOA.**

**WHOA.**

Stop and rewind. WHAT? _Beauxbatons reunion?_ I refuse to see those people again! I don't want to see stupid Nanette and Fernando and Tristan and all those people who hate me! NO! And I don't want to show up there all boyfriend-less, saying something like, "Oh, my boyfriend's in London," or something. Oh yes, they'll totally believe me. No! I'm not going to the damn reunion. No question. I can do this by myself. I'll just… er… um…

Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.

"I hate you."

"Here's the invitation," she smiled, handing me a bright pink lacy-edged square of paper as she pranced out the room, probably singing "Rumplestiltskin is my name!" or something like that.

Damn. I'm dateless and doomed. Prostitutes ruin_ everything._

**7:00 p.m.** – "It won't be that bad," says Jacques, handing me the pint of ice cream I requested. Oh yeah? Well, if it's not that bad, please explain the junk food frenzy! "I'm sure your memory has just made this worse than it is."

"Hey! My memory is fine!" I protest, shoveling chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream into my mouth.

"What did you have for breakfast yesterday?" asks Jacques, all logically. I swear: it's like living with some kind of… educator. Okay, have definitely decided that prostitutes and former English tutors ruin _everything_.

"Objection on grounds of irrelevancy," I said.

"Irrelevancy? That's a memory question, and one you should be able to answer—"

"SH!"

"—and who can't remember what they had for breakfast yesterday?"

"SHH!"

"And it proves that you have a distorted and/or not completely functional memory."

"SHHHHH!" I hissed at him. "Don't bother insulting my fully functional memory; I probably won't remember it anyway."

Jacques just stared.

**7:45 p.m.** – Am reading the invitation. It specifically says _Tarts and Vicars party_, but I am positive I have read this incorrectly. Because for what reason would we host a reunion (how dumb is it to have a reunion after like a year?) where everyone looks like slut or… _vicar_? And what in God's name is a vicar, anyway?

Have just had horrid vision of showing up in bunny costume with fat hanging out and bad whorish make-up to find that everyone has changed their minds and decided that they'd rather all be stuffy business-people.

**8:00 p.m.** – Jacques has just assured me that I'm not just seeing things—it really does say _tarts and vicars. _"They probably think it's funny," he said.

I latched on to his arm. "Jacques, save me save me save me. I can't show up dateless and _alooone! _They'll mock me and be cruel and wicked to me, and then Fernando will come up to me and look me up and down and be like, 'Ooh, she's let herself go,' and Tristan will wonder what he ever saw in me, and Claudette and Nanette will laugh and snicker and laugh and I'll cry by the punch bowl just like Winter Formal! Jacques! Help me!"

"No one's going to laugh and snicker at you," he sighed. "You're so paranoid. You'll be fine."

"NOO, but—"

"I'll go with you," he said.

Jacques-snogging urges arose, but I suppressed them, and instead contented myself to dragging him off his butt and spinning him around in circle after circle after circle. "YAY! Thank you, thank you! Thank you!"

"It's no problem… but will you mind terribly if I _don't_ dress up as a vicar?" he said, stopping me and sitting me back down.

"No, of course not," I smiled. Sigh. Here I thought he was going to take Janine and I was going to be hopelessly alone. But no! _Parce que_ I can always count on my dearest, darling Jacques. And now I'll beam brightly and scamper off to find something tarty.

**Day Eighty-Four of Free Independence**

**Saturday, April 11th, 2005**

**My Room**

**6:59 a.m.**

**6:59 a.m.** – All right, so the date of the reunion is the 24th. That's thirteen whole days. And I'm back in England in… nineteen days. So I have a little less than three weeks to: _get dad out of prison, get mom and dad back together, get mom back to normal… _er… and probably some other things that I can't think of right now, as my mind is blank. But right now, the most important thing is: find something tarty!

**7:34 a.m.** – You know, as my sister is a tart, she probably has something tarty, doesn't she? Of course, she must! However, I am still trying to figure out what I should wear if I simply _must_ look like a tart, and I am caught between filthy, mad dominatrix and _très_ slutty maid. Because as we have all undoubtedly learned from books and media, maids are all tramps and sluts.

Perhaps I shall be a milkmaid?

On the one hand: **Filthy Dominatrix**

Perks:

1) Will probably get to have large whip with which to punish people. I'm sorry, that just makes me giggle.

2) Will get to wear inordinate amounts of black leather.

3) Will get to wear shoes far too tall, sharp, and pointy and that could possibly be used for punishing people. Giggle. Giggle.

4) Will probably have filthy Dominatrix-type name as can be found on freakish websites. Mistress Something-Something. Mistress Toad-Fang? Mistress Naughty-Kittens? Mistress Dirty-Possum?

5) Will get to wear dramatic wicked-looking makeup.

6) Will get to scream all manner of things, such as: "Sit down!" "Did I say you could speak?" "Obey me!" and "Bow, Cheese Boy, bow!"

7) Will get to name unimportant sex slave something demeaning such as Cheese Boy.

8) Handcuffs.

9) This isn't really a reason, but is it sick that I think it would be kind of cool for Draco Malfoy to be my sex slave? I mean, not so I could have sex with him, but so I could whip him and call him Cheese Boy? Or Monkey? Because it would really amuse me to call Malfoy "Monkey." Or Cheese Monkey. "Dance, Cheese Monkey, dance!"

On the other hand: **Slutty Maid**

Perks:

1) I can whack things with my feather-duster.

2) Instead of being demanding loud and bedecked in leather, I can be flirty and dumb. And being dumb… is _soooo_ much fun.

3) I can wear fishnet hose.

4) And a frilly short skirt.

5) And say naughty French things all the time.

6) And my favorite word can be "Oops!"

7) And I can pretend that I don't speak English and make people try and speak French, which is funny. Like when I was in America, I kept on seeing these "Muzzy" commercials that have this big monster teaching French or something, and the girl in the video keeps on saying, "Je suis une fille," but if you went to France and said that, people would assume you were a hooker.

Or maybe I'll be an old-fashioned slut, with garters and tights and a bustier and such. And then I can still wear a frilly short skirt and fishnet hose and my favorite word can still be "Oops!" And perhaps I shall find a way to punish people with my garters. And then secretly call them Cheese Monkey behind their backs. Yes, definitely.

**9:05 a.m.** – Am now reading paper and am disturbed to find that Harry Potter's favorite boxers still cannot be located. Good God, what exactly can you _do_ with a man's boxers?

Man? I meant boy. Underage boy. Off-limits, stop thinking about that you nasty garter-wearing, Malfoy-whipping, sex-obsessed tart.

Maybe this girl has an underwear fetish and is collecting men's underwear. Men? I meant BOYS! Or perhaps it is just a general obsession with Harry and she wants to… well, I don't know. What would _I_ do if _I_ had Harry's boxers?

Things I Would Do If I Had Harry's Lucky Shamrocks

1) Dance around in a merry circle around a large glowing bonfire shrieking "Yes! Yesss!" in manner of Herbal Essences commercial.

2) Imagine Harry in them. And then imagine Harry without them. And then imagine Harry in them…

3) Check the label, wonder where he could have gotten them, go out shopping to buy him some more underwear, and then at the checkout realize that I am _not_ Harry Potter's girlfriend and I should not be buying him underwear.

4) I'd try them on. I'm nasty, I know.

5) I'd see if there were some sort of wicked, restricted spell I could use to make him love me. But then, who wouldn't?

6) Hold them ransom and send him a threatening yet sexy note informing them that either he agrees to become my lover or I'll burn his underwear. If refuses, will not burn underwear, but instead content myself to keeping them and doing the above five things.

I am tempted to go on a sleuthing mission to find Harry's boxers. I'm betting I could write a best-selling novel about it too: _Fleur Delacour and the Quest for the Shamrocks_. Or perhaps _Fleur Delacour and the Boy Who Lived to Lose His Pants. _

I can see it now, me racing across the world on a mission of top international secrecy. I'd be a secret agent with fabulous shoes and oversized Chanel glasses and a gun (because though _Avada Kedavra _is effective and all, I'd rather kill people with a gun). I'd have listening devices and a GPS and a top-notch broom and I'd send secret messages saying things like, "Agent FD89 here, over. The undies have been found. Repeat: the undies have been found."

And then I'd get an award from the Ministry—not too much to ask for Order of Merlin, First Class? I mean, after all, a girl who can retrieve Harry's drawers from the hands of evil deserves a little bit more than a pat on the back, I dare say?

**10:45 p.m.** – Ah! There's an owl flying in! An owl flying in! MAIL! I have got mail!

I promise, it isn't completely my fault that I am obsessed with getting mail—it's only that: wouldn't you feel alone and excluded if people didn't want to talk to you, if the only people that contacted you were asking you to buy their magical elixir and referred to you as _Current Resident?_ Wouldn't you desperately crave a letter addressed to you and only to you? And besides, there's something about the mystery of opening a letter, unsure of what's within it. Except my problem is that I'm forever reading through the envelope because I can't wait.

But my point: MAIL!

**10:58 p.m.** – It was a note from Dad! Thank goodness he has not died at the hands of evil Singaporean gum-hating wardens. He wrote to say:

_Dear Flurry-Pie,_

_I was touched by your concerned letter, but I need you to know that I am fine. I have convinced the wardens that I meant no harm by chewing gum in the streets and was not aware of the need to make a formal request. I think they will be letting me out in about a week with just a fine._

_And now, a message for your mother—_

_My darling wife, love of my life, you cannot know what great sorrow it has caused me to be apart from you. Every day I am not in the presence of your radiance and sparkling personality I wither. Every last one of my creaky, arthritic bones in my bones calls for you! I miss you, my love! Here's praying you have not forgotten our anniversary._

—_end of message._

_Fleur, I cannot wait to see you._

_Love,_

_Your Father_

Good thing to know some things never change. Can you say _doting Mum-worshipper?_ And chances are, she has forgotten their anniversary, because she hasn't talked of it once. I am beginning to wonder if there is some serious Polyjuice going on here, because usually she would be harping on and on, "I don't want another crap anniversary gift from you two this year. This year, I want a dinette set…"

**2:13 p.m.** – "You know, Fleur, I think we ought to have a big, huge talk," exclaims Janine happily, as if "big, huge talks" are the cause of everything good and fabulous in the world when truly big huge talks are usually the bringer of the apocalypse.

For an instant I fear she is going to tell me something enormous and life-altering, like that she is my long-lost twin or that she is secretly a man named Cheese Monkey. But then she says: "You know, like a big catching-up talk. After all, it's been a year!"

And this is true. We must get to know each other again and play games and read trash from the Athena O'Hereagall Romantic Book Club and stuff our faces with calorie-filled junk food and laugh uproariously at everything. "All right, definitely," I agree, thinking of high-calorie junk food. Admittedly, I should be concentrating on losing ten pounds, but it's so much more _fun_ eating junk food than it is _not _eating junk food…

**2:58 p.m.** – "Truth or truth?" asks Janine, the question that leads to the most essential game of friendship ever. Because Truth or Dare is so _très_ _passé_ and because we are simply too lazy to think up dares, we play Truth or Truth, where the only rule is to tell the truth. And admit it, that rule is pretty hard to forget, right?

"Oh, let me see, this is a hard one…" I say, feigning indecision. "How about truth?"

"How nervous are you about the Beauxbatons Reunion?" she asked. It was one of those questions you only asked when it was secretly (only not so secretly) a question that reflected on yourself.

"Nervous out of my head," I replied, reaching for a potato chip. "I mean, I haven't seen these people in over a year. I've forgotten what they're like, but I remember a majority of them hate me and are going to judge me like the _instant_ I walk in the door. How much does _that_ suck? And then, Fernando… I might kill him. You know how you hate someone, and then you don't think about them for awhile, and then you think you're over hating them, but then you _see_ them again and the stabbing-stabbing-stabbing urges return?"

"Kind of like when you have a crush on someone and you tell yourself you're over them and then you don't see them for a while, but then when you finally see them, you realize you've forgotten how hot they are and how fabulous and all the crush-ness comes flooding back?"

No, she's _totally_ not talking about Jacques.

"Yes," I said, sipping my Diet Coke, "that's exactly what I mean." Would this be the time to come out and say something in the vein of "Why in God's name do you insist on pursuing Jacques?" Or would she take out a huge knife and scream "Possessive Best Friend! Possessive Best Friend!" Because that's what I'd do.

"Okay, my turn. Your favorite Orlando Bloom?"

"Orlando Bloom like he _looks_ in _Elizabethtown_, but how he _talks_ in _Pirates of the Caribbean,_" smiled Janine. And then we both sat and smiled at the thought of über-British Orlando Bloom whispering sweet dirty nothings into our ears.

**Day Eighty-Nine of Free Independence**

**Thursday, April 16th, 2005**

**Random Costume Shop**

**10:12 a.m.**

**10:12 a.m.** – I'm currently standing in Some Random Costume Shop. You would be _amazed_ at how many tarty outfits you can find in random costume shops. "So, do you think Standard Tart?"

"Mm-hm, Classic Tart, definitely," says Janine, agreeing with me. "Classic tart as in classy-yet-whorish _Moulin Rouge_ tarts with fantastic heels and slutty makeup."

Squee! Classic Tart! Squee!

**10:13 a.m.** – Am now absently wondering why Janine does not feel the need to purchase her self a tart outfit. "Hey, Janine? Why no costume?"

"We're all not beautiful people like you, Fleur," she sighed, with this totally un-seventh-year-Janine-like tone that suggested some sort of _antipathy_ (Jacques-word, I'm only guessing what it means…) or something. "Super-revealing clothing doesn't bode well for us."

Since when is this "us" versus "them?" And since when did _we_ stop being "us?" Ah, bah-humbug—why do things have to change when they used to be so good?

**2:00 p.m.** – BAAAAAAAAH. "Beautiful people?" Screw her.

**2:34 p.m.** – AAAAAACKKKK! She can die! She can just die! Why is she so mad and emotionally distant and—_screw her screw her screw her. _Gah! I hope she burns in the depths of… the depths of… well the depths of her mental insanity, that's what she can do! Fricking "us versus them" theories and resentful comments… I hope she dies… damn switch-bitching on-and-off friend!

**4:19 p.m.** – Jacques wants to know why I am so _très pissé_, _mais _I do not want to talk about it right now. Whole _fricking_ way home, she was all, "Sigh," and then she'd shift in the seat, and then "Sigh." Switch-Bitch. Stupid idiot, doesn't she realize nasty folds of fat that are going to hang out of ridiculous costume?

**5:13 p.m.** – Jacques _still_ wants to know why I'm so _pissé_. Why is he so _involved?_ Doesn't he have something _better_ to do, like tone his perfect biceps (no one has perfect biceps like that naturally, I know it) or tighten his perfect ass (because I know _no one no one NO ONE_ has a perfect ass like that naturally… except maybe Harry… hee-hee… wait, we're getting off-track here, aren't we?).

**6:48 p.m.** – What is wrong with me? I should forgive that one comment… it's only _one_ comment. Yeah, I don't want to. I'm too bitter.

Orange juice? Yes, definitely.

**Day Ninety of Free Independence**

**Friday, April 17th, 2005**

**Jumping up and down screaming, "Squee! Squee!"**

**9:17 a.m.**

**9:17 a.m.** – Dad's back! Portly, happy, mother-doting him and all! YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

**9:19 a.m.** – And now he's fainted from exhaustion.

**9:21 a.m.** – And now Mum has waltzed in with a floating scented candle in front of her, hoping to improve the "aura" of the room.

**9:30 a.m.** – And I've just realized I haven't seen Renée or Aylesford in a two days. Damn, she does her job well.

**9:45 a.m.** – There is giggling coming from the attic, but I am _not_ going up there, because Renée is doing what she has been bribed to do, and that is _none_ of my business.

**10:00 a.m.** – Though I'm getting a bit annoyed and disturbed.

**10:05 a.m.** – And she's not being very discreet.

**10:30 a.m.** – Aah, here she comes now, Renée Delacour, with Aylesford No-One-Cares-What-His-Last-Name-Is trailing behind her, two disgustingly fit people making eyes at each other. Renée is probably thinking, "God, this is easy," and Aylesford is probably thinking, "I really want to do that again." What a lovely world we live in.

**12 NOON –** This is so pathetic… but I'm actually out for lunch with Renée. She's going on and on and on about how Aylesford does his business and about how she's going to be part of their new marketing campaign and how it's all so fabulous… And I'm thinking, "Do I have friends?" Besides Jacques I mean. Because I had all these friends at Beauxbatons who I don't see anymore, and the only person left over from my school days is Jacques. I am ever so slightly screwed. I need a posse. No, entourage. Clique? Coterie? Hm… I just need friends that aren't Jacques, otherwise I'm going to be a sad and lonely creature when I get back to Hogwarts where Jacques will not be (as he inevitably always is) practically living with me.

"So, it turns out that he's been, like, in love with me since the day he saw me. And he actually said that. Can you believe? He _actually_ said that; it was so _très fantastique_. And then…" She continues to talk, but I have no idea what she's saying because I am choosing not to pay attention to her. I am instead absently thinking about Tristan, Fernando, and my underwear. Not in the same thought, of course. _Black bra, blue underwear—what sacrilege!_ I can't even—

"And so now we're getting married."

**12:30 p.m.** – I've just spat up my coffee all over myself in the manner of a three-month-old child (who will probably be stunted from drinking coffee, come to think of it). Married? I thought you were supposed to _sleep with them_ not MARRY THEM!

"It's going to be a very long, expensive affair, so it'll have to be next year, of course," she says, brushing back her hair in her cute little way, just oh-so-casually, and it's fully coincidental that the light just happened to catch the skating rink on her finger.

"What the hell is _growing_ on your finger?" I shouted incredulously after my little coffee-vomiting affair.

"My ring, silly," she laughed, her tinkling bitchy laugh. "You don't think I'd say _yes_ without a ring, do you?"

"You've known him like a day. What in God's name is wrong with you?"

Renée shook her head. "No. _You've_ known him for like a day. Remember? I was here in November and December _and_ January—I got to learn various important things about Aylesford, like his personality and his kindness and his bank account," she said thoughtfully. "I realize that _he _is the kind of guy I want to marry." She sighed happily. "_Seven_ figures."

I gaped at her.

"Oh, and it's funny, Fleur, how you thought he and Mom were having an affair! We were laughing about you the other day—you're so amusing. She's like twenty years older than him—he's twenty-eight, you know."

More gaping.

"It's going to be lovely! But I want to walk down the hall to _Shut up He's Mine_ by the Weird Sisters. I'm not sure Aylesford would go for that, but I can make him do anything." There was a brief silence before magically Renée connected her last thought to: "He's surprisingly limber, you know."

"You're trying to kill me. You are _trying _to kill me."

"I have something to give you before you go," she said in her by-the-way manner.

"An ANEURYSM?"

"You know what? I'll just mail it to you. I'll be too busy thinking about my gown to remember to give you anything. Oh and I'm thinking of lime green bridesmaid dresses," she said, a wicked glint in her eye. "Retro-chic, don't you think?"

**1:12 p.m.** – On couch with Renée. "You do know that Mum will shoot you, you know."

"I know. But then she'll remember how much this guy is being paid and be thankful. Soooo thankful."

"And dad?" I asked.

"Like he'll care. He'll agree with Mum once she agrees with me." She smiles at the phenomenon of her always getting what she wants.

**1:20 p.m.** – Mum has walked into room, Zen-like in a flowing robe and carrying a pot filled with potpourri. I have decided not to be fearful of her wrath seeing as now she is like Buddha Mom. Renée has just stood up, looking (dare I say?) elegant and respectful. Which is so ruined by the voice in which she says, "Mummy, I'm getting married!"

Mum drops the pot. "WHAT THE HELL?"

Yesss! She said "hell!"

Her face goes all red and her eyebrows go arched then narrowed and I see the classic Now-You've-Done-It face that I've seen so many times before. "What in God's name are you _thinking_, you _putain d'enfer! _What is _wrong _with you? I'm going to tear your hair out strand by strand until you listen to me—"

_YESSSS! VIOLENCE!_

"But Mummy, I _love _him!"

"I don't give a—"

"I love him I love him I love him!" Renée's whininess is not helping the situation, but I honestly don't think she cares about whether or not she has anyone's approval.

"I'm locking you up! I always knew you'd grow up like this—I knew it! Irrational and irresponsible and—GOD! You make me _old!_ You're going—going to a nunnery!"

"A _nunnery? _I'm getting married! Married to Aylesford and there's not a damn thing you can do about it!" Renée shouted passionately, as if she were calling to the heaven in a theatre, one of those horrid coming-of-age things followed by a dance number.

"Aylesford?" hissed my mother, one of those deathly quiet things that just alerts you to the fact that the worst is coming. "You're marrying AN AEROBICS INSTRUCTOR?"

"Mother! I'm marrying into a fortune! A limber, gorgeous fortune!" At this I giggled discreetly—I mean: Limber, gorgeous fortune…

"Shut up. I don't want to hear your voice for a month. I need to go… drink," she said, sounding like her old self again. "I don't care if you're marrying a millionaire—"

"Wrong."

"Then _what?"_ said my mother, turning around in the doorway. Murderous. She looks delightfully murderous.

Renée smiles as she seals the deal. "Ten. Zeroes."

**2:12 p.m. –** I _can't_ believe she won. Mother's being a bitch about the wedding, horrible and sour, and Renée's being horrible as well, but Dad's back and Renée's going to be off our hands, and Mum's back the way she should be! Success!

**Day Ninety-Four of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, April 21st, 2005**

**Bouncing Happily With Newspaper**

**7:28 a.m.**

**7:28 a.m.** – Because Jacques insists that I learn about current events, I am sitting (well, bouncing really) on my bed, reading the _Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, _and _The Snitch Report _(a tabloid that sounds like a Quidditch magazine). On the _Daily_ _Prophet_ cover, there's some wizard who has discovered a new and rare species of dragon living in the Netherlands, but if you turn to page 4, there's the more gossipy news about wizard celebrities and the stuff that Rita Skeeter writes.

On Page Four, there is nothing but Harry, Harry, and more Harry. The papers are very in love with Harry. This is completely not fair, as he looks so damn cute flying around on his broom as he wins his Quidditch game, wiping a bead of sweat from his sexy brow, and smiling at Hermione. His _girlfriend_. GAAAAAAAAAH! I want her to _die_.

But I shouldn't because he's not mine.

Damn.

Jacques should not give me newspapers.

**7:44 a.m.** – Am now seething at _The Snitch Report_. Cover Story: _Couple of the Year._ Couple of the Year? HARRY AND HERMIONE. The entire dumb magazine is filled with pictures of Harry and Hermione eating lunch together, smiling adoringly at each other, at Quidditch games together, studying in total cuteness together, and being generally lovely to each other. And for some reason, the Wizarding World is eating this up. Because they "fight crime together" and still have time to "tend the blossoming flower of their love." And they are happy to know that she is not the Scarlet Woman (?) she apparently was back when she was with Victor Krum.

Excuse me, must pause for hatred. How in GOD'S name does she land Harry Potter _and_ Victor Krum?

They describe her as the cleverest witch to walk the wizarding world, harping endlessly over her fantastic grades. And then, they're like: "With her amazing brilliance, this witch can do anything. And with her womanly figure, perfect complexion, and youthful vitality, she's won the heart of the world's most coveted seventeen year-old Quidditch player."

Seventeen?

He's LEGAL?

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

**7:52 a.m.** – Jacques felt compelled to throw himself out of his bed and wander over to my room as he heard me shrieking and the sound of magazines hitting the wall. "Good God, Fleur, what's going on in here?"

Since I was too consumed with fury and frustration, I could only screech: "Womanly figure? _I'll_ show you womanly figure!" after which I viciously beat page 22 of _The Snitch Report_ with my fist until Jacques forcibly dragged me away from my bed.

"Have you been possessed?" asks Jacques, turning me around and staring at me in a sort of "Should I hold you at an arms length?" kind of way.

"No," I said, breathing deeply in manner of annoying video Pilates instructor Kathy (or Cathy?). I briefly searched my mind for some excuse for my behavior and then realized just how hard it is to find a non-crazy-sounding justification for screaming ferociously and clawing at Hermione's picture.

"Have you read about the Couple of the Year?" he guessed.

"You and the rest of the world… you're trying to make me crazy," I said.

Jacques smiled and shook his head. "You already are, Fleur," he said, "you already are."

**9:29 a.m.** – "I don't understand why everyone's so freakishly obsessed with them," I said, sitting in the library with Jacques, who has removed the newspapers and magazines from my possession. "I mean, seriously—they're like pre-breakup Brad and Jen!"

"Mm-hm, whatever, Fleur," says Jacques, pretending as if he knows what I am talking about, which he should if he is as up-to-date on current events as he says he is.

"But apparently they're very private about their relationship," I said, thinking that perhaps my spy mission should not be to find Harry's Shamrocks, but instead a quest to find detailed information on the Harry-Hermione love-fest. "However, that can always be remedied by doing some Hogwarts snooping and listening carefully to the whisperings of the Secret Staff Grapevine."

"Yes, yes Fleur," says Jacques, sounding serene as ever, "I'm sure grapes are a fantastic remedy."

"Are you listening to me?"

"Oh, well I like grapes," he replies.

"Well, I'll take that as a no."

**4:00 p.m.** – "GAAAAAAH!" I am dashing around my room with bundles of stuff, trying desperately to stuff things into two suitcases, having realizing that half the things I am packing are things that I did not come with.

"Oh, what is it now, Fleur?" This is Jacques, who is probably standing on the stairs, too afraid to enter the land of no return.

"Clothes!"

"Well, yes, you _have_ clothes…" trails Jacques, trying to discern my problem.

"PACKING!"

"Oh, I see," says Jacques. "Would you like some help?"

"MY CLOTHES WON'T FIND IN THE SUITCASE!"

"Well, why are you packing now?"

"BECAUSE I'M LEAVING IN NINE DAYS, JACQUES, WHAT DO YOU THINK?"

"Sorry, just asking."

"GAAAAAAAAAAH!"

**9:23 a.m.** – Am taking an early night, but cannot get to sleep because of outrageous and incredibly sweet pictures of Harry and Hermione somewhere in Jacques's room. See, I know they're there. And because I know they're there, I cannot rest.

**9:28 a.m.** – They should be burned.

**9:45 a.m.** – And I should sleep.

**9:57 a.m.** – I desperately need to sleep. But I can't because I am _insane_.

**10:00 a.m.** – Maybe Jacques is right. After all, Jacques is always right. I'm definitely crazy. _Oui. Je suis très fou._

**11:00 a.m.** – SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.

**Day Ninety-Seven of Free Independence**

**Friday, April 24th, 2005**

**Pondering Over What Day It Is**

**2:19 a.m.**

**2:19 a.m.** – DAY OF REUNION. I'm… dead… dying… dying….

**5:23 a.m.** – It's not even a "What am I going to wear?" thing; it's worse: it's a "I'm descending into a pit of vicious crocodiles disguised as human beings." I know what I'm going to wear—I just don't want to wear it in front of _them_, come to think of it…

**5:54 a.m.** – Am freaking out. And damn it, I can't Floo Janine, because she hates me and now that she hates me I can no longer trust her. _Merde_.

**7:34 a.m.** – Jacques might freak out if I ran into his room screaming again. Isn't there some kind of self-help book on this? Why can't I remember my essential teachings? _Witches are from Mars_ doesn't discuss this, _Witches in Relationship Ditches_ doesn't either... _that's_ why I can't remember my essential teachings! They were never actually taught to me! Damn, damn, _damn_ that that one self-help book I actually _need_ right now has not yet been written!

**9:56 a.m.** – Head practically in breakfast cereal with stress. Renée and mother are arguing over how much to spend on the dress. Jacques is laughing at supposedly brilliant political cartoon mocking Ministry. Dad is recounting the saga of the wicked people in Singapore. I AM DYING INSIDE MY HEAD.

**10:00 a.m.** – "Hey, Fleur," says Jacques, looking up from total brilliancy of these new political cartoons. "Are you all right?"

Thank you for noticing that I've been _dying inside my head_ for the past eight hours!

"NO."

"Oh."

OH?

**12 NOON** – Walked into the parlor so that I could inconspicuously faint on one of the couches and not move until seven-thirty, but when I entered the room Renée and Aylesford were already there _feeding_ each other breakfast. So then decided that fainting on the bathroom toilet was just as well. And then, I was mercilessly surprised by an unwanted floorgasm and decided to just drop down and sit by the bathroom door and bemoan my existence.

**4:24 p.m.** **–** Renée is standing over me, but I'm going to pretend she's not there.

"Shouldn't you be getting ready about now? Doesn't it take you like four hours to get ready for a two-hour event?"

"Mmble mmm hmmm snuffle hm."

"Okay, someone woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick today…" trills Renée, for some ridiculous reason not leaving me alone. "You know what? How about I'll help you get ready?"

"Why?" I ask suspiciously, raising my head from the fetal position I'd been in.

"As thanks."

"For what?" If she thinks I'm going to trust her that easily, she has another thing coming.

Renée grins. "For leading me in the direction of seven figures, a ring the size of a small South American country, and a wedding to rival all others for the next century or so. And Aylesford's a nice treat too."

I groaned and stood up. "Fine…"

**7:30 p.m.** – Three hours later, I am ready and looking my sluttiest. _Moulin Rouge_ makeup, _Moulin Rouge_ hair, and the all-important_ Moulin Rouge _outfit. "There," says Renée after working her magic (which involved an extensive and very complicated spell to make my hair stay up); "you're fantastic. I mean, yes, you'll still continue to be shown up by me your entire life, but when you're not with me, I'm sure people will call you fantastic."

I beamed at the sort-of half-compliment. Half is better than nothing when it comes to my sister and me. I take a deep breath and scamper downstairs to where Jacques is waiting in his tuxedo.

I think honestly he's just asking to get shagged in that tuxedo.

"How do I look?" I ask, twirling my tartiness around.

"Tarty," he says. "I mean, not tarty in a bad way, tarty in a good way. I mean, not that tarts are good—tarts are bad—but you're a good tart—I mean not that you really are a good tart, it's just that… You look good."

I take a stretch and dash downstairs at the sound of Renée screaming "LEAVE already!" and hope for the best as I walk out the door.

"Come on," I sighed, "I'm about to dive into a pit of hatred—I need an escort."

Jacques laughed. "Fleur, you _are_ an escort..."

**8:00 p.m.** – Okay, it's time to walk in. The event is being held on the second floor of a lovely hotel that Jacques and I have just Apparated into (after about half-an-hour of wondering where this hotel is as I did not bring the invitation with me). It's quite lovely, the room, which you can see from outside through the windows. All lights and sparkles and an enormous punchbowl. But, you see, there's one small problem.

NO ONE IS DRESSED AS A TART.

I look at Jacques and Jacques looks at me. "Fleur," he says resolutely, "we've been had."

**8:30 p.m.** – Have had to rush home and find replacement outfit. I suppose _this_ is why Janine didn't purchase a costume! I suppose I was the only one who got a letter that said _Tarts and Vicars_ instead of _Black-Tie._

**8:45 p.m.** – Now I've fallen into the "what am I going to wear?" trap again!

**9:00 p.m.** – "You look fine, I promise," Jacques assures me. He assures me of this despite the fact that I am wearing Renée's dress and struggling to breath as she is now a size _one and a half!_ How I fit even my thigh into this dress, I shall never know.

Ack. I suppose it's really time to go in now… er… all right…

**Day Ninety-Nine of Free Independence**

**Sunday, April 26th, 2005**

**Pondering Over Reunion**

**10:23 a.m.**

**10:23 a.m.** – All right, it wasn't that bad. I mean, yes, we all got viciously drunk. And yes, because of the tightness of Renée's dress, I couldn't bend over. And yes, Fernando was drunk as usual and started being his lewd nasty self again. _However_, Jacques did get to punch his lights out and then I got to stand over him singing, "Can you hear the drums, Fernando?" So it was all right.

Except for the hangover. The hangover sucks.

**12 NOON –** Mum is so busy arguing with Renée over the amount of money to be put into flowers that she doesn't even have time to ask how the reunion went. Yay!

I'm all packed and ready to leave for London, a whole five days early, and so now they're kissing me off and saying goodbye and a whole lot of I'll miss you type things. And Jacques is saying that he'll see me soon, which I believe because we always inevitably end up living with each other. And Renée has just told Mother to go die in a ditch, but she's still waving me off with the hand she's not flicking the world off with. And Daddy's saying his lovely goodbyes and that he'll write me everyday now that the Singaporeans aren't forbidding him to write more than once a week.

And so my only worry is… erm… when I get back, exactly what am I supposed to do about Harry?

**

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**

**A/N:** "You _are_ an escort," that's something I said to my friend Liz last week actually... but she walked right into it. :) Unfortunately, I won't be able to update for quite a while as I'm inordinately busy, but I'll do my best. Your reviews keep me from going off my rocker; I _really_ appreciate them! Oh, gee, I wonder if I'm being enough of a suck up? Filling out too many applications will do that to you, I suppose. "I volunteer because I _looooooooooove_ helping people! Not for any other ulterior motives at all!" Anyway, please review, and hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter (more underwear related plotlines, actually) up soon. Much Love, Femme Teriyaki.


	11. May: In His Pants

**May: **

**In His Pants

* * *

**

**Day One-Hundred-Four of Free Independence**

**Friday, May 1st, 2005 – May Day**

**Safely Tucked Away in Hogwarts**

**7:58 AM**

**7:58 a.m. –** Looks like I'm back, back to a world of ASP, pumpkin juice, Potions with Snape, the irrepressibly obscene Malfoy, Harry Potter, and my _boyfriend_, Michael. And it looks as if I have been free and independent for over one-hundred days! (I wish I'd had a 100 Days of Free Independence party.) And it looks as if… as if… well, it looks as I am bored.

And late! Late for Potions! (And therefore life as we know it is restored to its natural order.)

**8:12 a.m.** – Well, it's good to see that a month hasn't changed Snape one bit. He's still my Snappy-Snape-Snifflekins, that's for sure, cranky and grumpy and ungrateful. And _greasy_. I arrived and he glared at me—"You're late. Get out the cauldrons and give them to the students." I blinked at him for a second with an "I'm delighted to see you too" look on my face and then obediently did as I was told.

And now I am finished with performing my Potions Assistant duties, so I am perched on one of the unused tables doing as I always do—"taking notes."

_Fleur's Notes:_

What in God's name am I going to do about Harry? I mean, I shall have to see him in ASP practically every blasted night and that's sure to be awkward now that there's that whole _kissing_ thing. And he must think that I am stalking him or something—I didn't really get to catch his expression after I kissed him because I was too busy sprinting off in another direction. So how do you reverse an impression that has been building for five months of being an insane fan-girl?

And Michael and I are back together now, and there is no way in hell that I am screwing this up—it is just not going to happen. We're going to have lovely conversations at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and go on fantastic and lovely romantic dates, and be Golden Couple Number Two. And I am going to be happy with what I have instead of being the lust mountain that I am. I have got to realize that what I feel for Harry is nothing but… but… but a huge pile of Lustification. And if there is no justification for my Lustification, then the Lustification must _end_.

**9:00 a.m.** – There's a class of sixth years in here now and they're positively glowing over _The Snitch Report_. "I think we're so lucky to know them… they're so cute together," says one. "Are you kidding me? I hate her. I wish _I _were Harry's girlfriend," says the other. _Oh join the club_. "You know," she says conspiratorially, "I've heard…"

_Yes? Yes? What have you heard?_

"I've heard that they're having _problems_," she says, stretching out the word _problems_ so that it sounds extra-serious. There is a smattering of whispers and gasps and general excitement within the cluster of gossiping girls. "Apparently she's losing her patience with him. I mean, sure, it's something you could stand when he's just your friend and constantly in danger and you _know_ you've got to hold on to him because he might _die_ the next day…" she says. "But all that drama was _last _year and there are lesser things to worry about when it comes to the danger and all that. I mean, it was something she could _stand_ then." All the girls are nodding on and on as if this is the gospel and I'm just waiting for this girl to get to the point. "But hello? It's not as if she can keep him around forever—it's not as if he doesn't get mail every day from girls _far_ more attractive than she is asking, no begging to be his girlfriend. And then… it's not as if she could ignore the problem of his missing boxers." The girls giggled. "I mean, how is he supposed to explain that?"

Hmmm… maybe I don't need to go on a sleuthing mission to find Harry's Lucky Shamrocks. Maybe Hermione already is?

**10:00 a.m.** – Dropped by DADA classroom on a quick break and was horribly shocked to find Michael not there. Instead, standing in Michael's habitual place, there was Remus Lupin. I swear, the instant he saw me, he started to go magenta again. I suppressed a brief look of total embarrassment and found the strength within me to ask: "Where's Michael? Is he sick?"

"No," Lupin said, "he's in Egypt."

"Egypt?"

"Yes, he's on an important assignment in Egypt," Lupin said. I was tempted to interject that if he was going to go on a mission in Egypt that he should take me with him, but decided would be useless to complain to Professor Lupin about that.

"Oh, all right," I said, slightly disappointed. Gasp! But I have just realized that this means I shall have to be giving Harry ASP lessons all by myself!

I'm going to go cry/be delighted. It may be an interesting balancing act, but I promise I can manage this. My birthday is going to suck, which has just occurred to me… if Jacques has forgotten that my birthday is tomorrow, I am going to gun him down with… owl pellets.

**12 NOON –** Boo, I miss Jacques. Why in God's name isn't he here? Oh, dear. I'm guessing it must make me a freak to miss him so much. I need an Anti-Jacques-Missing… Topical Cream?

**12:30 p.m.** – Ack! Saw Harry looking gorgeous as usual and he looked at me and I looked at him and there was this… _charged_ little second, like a little moment of serious electricity, and then he blushed and looked away to return to his dinner.

Blushing… that means he definitely remembers. And semi-enjoyed it? Though he is quite publicly _taken?_ Would leave brilliant filled-with-youthful-vitality girlfriend for _moi?_ Well, let's not get ahead of ourselves…

Yay!

**1:04 p.m.** – Or maybe he's just hideously embarrassed that the entire thing happened and realizes with remorse and amusement that he has kissed the most hideous person in the world and would kill himself if it weren't so insanely funny that he wasted his time with his gorgeous sexy evil-fighting lips pressed against mine in a moment of (my) uncontrollable passion.

**1:12 p.m.** – Or maybe he wasn't even blushing at me. Maybe he was blushing because I had breakfast stuck in my teeth again. Or maybe every time he looks at me he has a brief flashback of me with big leafy green hunk of spinach/lettuce fusion stuck in teeth rather similar to the Jacques X-ray underwear dilemma. Similar to entire female population instant zone-in to Lucky Shamrocks Region of Gryffindor Seeker dilemma. Because, honestly, I've been staring at Harry's Lucky Shamrocks region all day… and have had to take two showers so far because I'm so disgusted with myself… but it's not _my_ fault. He's… he's so… so… if you don't know what I'm talking about, then you're… you're… you're definitely not a hormonal French girl!

**2:48 p.m.** – Sitting in on Potions. Why is my world _crap?_ I miss having actual people I can talk to! I have no Jacques; I have no Michael—and _hell_: I don't even have Renée to "confide" in. What am I supposed to do? I can't make friends with the faculty, because they already think of me as an incompetent ho-bag bimbo and either want to kidnap and shag me or want me to die a horrid, blood-filled death. Or are embarrassed because I uttered the word "sexy" in their presence and will not have sex with them. And if I make friends with the students… well, let's just say I've had _problems_ making friends with the students.

**4:21 p.m.** – Letter! Letter! Stop that—I can hear you making fun of me. Excuse me, but mail is my drug of choice. AAH! Woo-hoo! Letter is from Jacques! (**NTS** – Cure self of semi-chemical dependency on Jacques.)

_Dear Fleur,_

_Have you spazzed out that I'm not there yet? Just wanted to say happy early birthday (no I didn't forget… how could you think I'd forget?). Present is attached. I think you'll be pleased. Though I hope it won't encourage you to be more insane than you already are._

_All my love,_

_Jacques._

_P.S. And yes, I am wearing your present. Are you happy? I hope I haven't contributed to your silk boxer fetish… and I can't believe you stole my briefs and buried them outside your house like I wouldn't find them…_

Present? Present! A present that he believes I will be pleased with? Oh, God, what could it be? More lovely perfume, a very small and neatly packaged Orlando Bloom, or possibly _How to Become a Lean and Sexy Supermodel in 2 Hours or Less?_ Oh, it doesn't matter—I'm just going to open the fricking present!

Opening, opening, opening…

All right; it may not be the Victoria's Secret Bra and Panties set, but it is the complete works of Agatha Firebrick, my favorite self-help book author! Maybe can fix self / destroy indestructible sex-obsession.

**5:00 p.m.** – Sitting in Potions room, Harry's class and Ron Weasley (have finally learned name of freckle-faced sibling of ex-English tutor and best friend of underwear losing sex god) keeps glancing over at me and looking at Harry and being like, "OH HA, HA, HA!" which is making me want to jump up and hit him. _Merde,_ I think he _knows!_ Why the hell would Harry _share_ this with people? Does he think it's… it's… _appropriate_ to share the… the… _intimate details_ of our chance romantic encounter with the entire world? Does he mock this relationship—?

_There is no relationship because I am not dating Harry. There is no relationship because I am not dating Harry. There is no relationship because I am not dating Harry._

What is _wrong_ with me?

**5:20 p.m.** – Of course, I'm pretty sure Hermione doesn't know… despite her suspicious glaring at me… which has gone up from it's all time high of 23 to 30… in one class… oh God oh God oh God….

**6:34 p.m.** – I should just catalogue my current state of affairs before I have a nervous breakdown.

AAC

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 136. WHAAAT? How did this happen? Have the HG glares somehow added pounds to me? Has she found a way to telepathically send people excess weight?

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: GAAAAAAAAAAH! DAMN HARRY FOR BEING SO SEXY!

Cyber-boyfriend: In Egypt. Should have stayed around and then clung to his heels screaming "don't go!"

Pilates Minutes: Ha. Yeah right. Just because I planned to start doing this four months ago does not mean that I'm actually going to follow through—that's just laughable.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 45

Jude-thinking Minutes: 78

HP-thinking Minutes: 541

HG glares: 30

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 62

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 934 to 1

Overall Day: _CRAAAAAAAAAP._ And some lust. But mostly crap. Self-help books! That was nice! And then everything else was… recycled crap. No just _crap._ Recycled crap. _Other_ people's crap that has been reused to make the crappiest crap there is just so it can be crappy enough for me.

**Day One-Hundred-Five of Free Independence**

**Monday, May 2nd, 2005 – My Birthday**

**Awake, Staring at my Windowsill**

**7:04 a.m.**

**7:04 a.m.** – Lazily dragged my butt out of bed to a completely unforgiving "hoo-hoo-hoo" type sound and my curtains fluttering horridly open, making a little presentation of the little brown package sitting serenely on my windowsill. Poussière was hooting and fluttering her wings and hopping from suitcase to suitcase in my room—I'm far too tired to unpack. I groaned and wandered (falling over about twice on the way) to my windowsill. "Birthday present?" I asked, but Poussière only hooted and flapped her wings again.

I semi-sleepily detached the ripped piece of parchment attached to it and read. _"Was going to sell it at auction after I 'borrowed' this from Hogwarts, but had a moral spaz-out and decided to return it. Kindly return to owner? Thanks, Renée."_

And why did I think Renée would send me a present?

I tore open the package, feeling like, "Oh God, what crap-ass thing is going to happen _this_ month?" And when the standard brown paper fell away, I looked at what was left and fell over.

The Lucky Shamrocks. I was holding the Lucky Shamrocks.

So I referred to my list of things I would do if I had Harry's Lucky Shamrocks, shaking off the remnants of disbelief. All right… there was no bonfire present, Lord _knows_ I'd already imagined Harry in and out of the Lucky Shamrocks, I couldn't find the label (though I tried, believe me, I tried), and I didn't have time to write a ransom note or look up a restricted love spell.

So, as the list had limited my options, I tried them on. And let me just say: _Hee-hee-hee-hee-hee._ And I'm definitely still wearing them. And I'm definitely…

LATE FOR POTIONS!

**12 NOON – **Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh God, this is worse than anything I've ever gotten into, so much worse than my normal daily embarrassment—oh crap, it's even more horrible than my normal _monthly_ embarrassment. Oh God oh God oh God. I'm not entirely sure how I'll ever really recover from this.

I had already sprinted down to the dungeons before I vaguely remembered Snape mentioning testing potions on Knarls today out by the Forbidden Forest. "Fricking greasy-haired, wishy-washy loser of a Potions master," I grumbled as I raced down to the forest. Maybe my notes in class should be on things like where we'd be meeting next instead of kissing Harry. But I don't care. It's my birthday—I'll take crap notes if I want to.

So I hurried down to the COMC area beside the FF and, of course, Harry's class was there to view my lateness, so I slowed down and tried to walk with composure in an effort to make it seem as if I weren't late. However, this effort turned out to be completely useless, as Harry was still staring at me (more electricity), Hermione was still looking at me suspiciously, and Ron was still snorting to himself. And Draco… Draco was just doing his thing, i.e. being sleazy. Snape, who had been saving his special glare for me, gave me a menacing look, an indiscreet once-over, then returned to barking at the class over what idiots they were. The problem was, everyone was staring at me. That's what sucks about being late. Grrr… so I gave them my best _Avada Kedavra _glare (despite the fact that it probably looked more like an "I look fat, don't I?" face, seeing as how I can't do facial expressions properly).

So I walked over to the tree stump that I was apparently supposed to sit on—I know; the joys of nature, right? "This month," I thought, "I'm going to be _normal_. When Michael comes back, we'll have fantastic and almost disgustingly romantic dates, and be like, if not pre-break-up Brad and Jen, at least pre-break-up Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan—who totally never should have broken up because they look so fantastic together. But that's beside the point. This month, I am going to breeze through with no falling asleep on people, no lewd Valentines, and no Draught-of-Peace-induced stupidity. This month," I thought as I prepared to sit down, "I am _not_ going to embarrass myself."

But then. Oh, but then. But then, as I prepared to sit down, a great gust of wind zipped through the trees… and blew my little pleated boarding-school-chic skirt up. And DO YOU THINK THAT'S THE WORST PART? Because, NO, it wasn't he worst part. No, it wasn't the snickers of the Gryffindor boys as they took a sneak peek or the dirty comments of Draco Malfoy as he got a royal look up my skirt—it was the words of a certain Ron Weasley that got me: _"Hey, Harry? Aren't those your boxers?"_

**1:24 p.m.** – So now, as Harry walks down the hall, he's greeted by high-fives and "How was it, man?" And me? I'm greeted by the most expressive faces of hatred I do believe I have ever seen. And do you want to know what makes this enter thing even worse? Creepy Colin Creevey, who had come down to see Harry to ask if he could take pictures of Harry and him with his girlfriend (okay, how does _he_ have a girlfriend?), caught it all on camera. That's right, folks. There's _photographic evidence_. So can officially go die now.

**3:12 p.m.** – Dying, dying, dying… I'm going to get fired, I'm going to get dumped, and then I'm going to commit suicide by jumping out of my bedroom window at Hogwarts. And my famous last words will be, "WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" and the last thing you'll hear from me will be SPLAT. And then the Harmonies (the very famous Harry-Hermione advocates who have been peaceful creatures up till now) would dance on my grave and beat me with tuna. How in _God's_ name am I going to explain this?

**3:45 p.m.** – I mean, eventually, I'm going to have to answer the question, "Why the hell were you wearing Harry Potter's underwear?" and I am going to have absolutely no clue as to what to say! "Oh, well, I made a list and checked it twice, and figured wearing Harry's _boxers_ would be nice?" Right.

**4:00 p.m.** – Oh God; Dumbledore's requested to see me. I am screwed on toast. He's probably going to say something like, "In light of recent discoveries, we have found it necessary to dismiss you from your position," or some other dressed up way of saying "you're fired." And then I'll have to use the little money that they pay me to rent a small, crappy apartment in Worksop or something.

**5:13 p.m.** – I was greeted by not only Dumbledore, but Snappy, Flitwick, Trelawney, Lupin, and McGonagall in manner of Hogwarts teacher conference. Was very intimidating as all were glaring at me with envelope on table, following me with their eyes like creepy kitty-cat clocks in unison. Sat down eventually, once I recovered from pure intensity of their visual hatred. Dumbledore, took the envelope, whipped out a stack (a thin stack, but still a stack) of photographs, and passed them to me. "Do you recognize these photos?" he asked.

Took a good hard look at photos. Horrid full-color depictions of me, with a slightly mortified look on my face, with my skirt blown up like a less-gorgeous Marilyn Monroe standing over an air vent, bright green Lucky Shamrocks in full view. I sighed. "I mean, I've never seen them before… but yes, that's me," I conceded.

"And… your… undergarments?" asked Dumbledore.

If I weren't in that situation, I would have laughed at Dumbledore saying "undergarments."

"Oh… those…?" Every fiber of my being was screaming "LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE!" And I realize that usually, when every fiber of your being is telling you something, you ought to listen to it, unless it's telling you to do something stupid, like _try on someone's underwear_, for example. So, I said, albeit a bit weakly: "Those are boxers… that I have…"

"You have men's underwear?" asked McGonagall. _For the love of God, why are all these grave people sitting around talking about _underwear_ of all things!_ I glanced over at the other staff members. Naturally, Lupin was trying to avoid my gaze (probably plagued with horrifying nightmares of me coming after him screaming "soooo sexy" at him), and Flitwick was looking at me with this most horrifying look of disappointment on his face. Trelawney was probably predicting my death in her head. Snape was twitching.

"Erm, yes, I find it's more… freeing," I said fumbling more a reason I would prefer boxers to regular underwear, noting how Lupin had to look away as I said "freeing."

Snape, who'd been seeming a bit fidgety the entire time, suddenly stopped violently twiddling his fingers and burst out, slamming his hands on the table, "But _why_ were you wearing HARRY POTTER'S underwear?"

"Umm… but I _wasn't_ wearing Harry Potter's underwear?" I shrieked, my voice going up an octave, asking an accidental question.

Snape seemed to want to continue on with his tirade, however, despite my denial. "But it IS! It's HARRY POTTER'S UNDERWEAR! How could you do this to—to—to the… the STAFF!"

Right. The staff.

"But I wasn't doing anything wrong!" This is not what I should have said.

"Miss Delacour, you are _screwing a student_—"

"Severus!" exclaimed McGonagall, shocked and appalled at Snape's use of the word _screw_ in her presence. I, however, was busy being shocked and appalled at his accusation.

"I am _not_ 'screwing' anybody in this school, you… _freak!"_ I exclaimed. In future, I will not call the person who may decide whether or not I end up in a smelly, crappy apartment in Worksop a freak. "Those are _not_ Harry Potter's boxers… and even if they _were_, just because I'm wearing them does _not_ mean I've had sex with him! For all you know, he may have leant them to me because he wanted… wanted… wanted me to keep them warm for him! Or maybe he thought it would be a funny present from a celebrity—you know: akin to a signed T-shirt or an autograph or a photo, only it's _under_wear instead of _outer_wear. And they're not! They're… boxers that I got! Bought! _Purchased!_ In Bordeaux! I bought shamrock-covered boxers in Bordeaux! They may look very similar to the famous Lucky Shamrocks, but only because since their discovery, the pattern has become very popular and is appearing underwear—I mean, _everywhere!_"

Professor McGonagall looked at her colleagues before looking back at me. "Excuse me, dear, if we have trouble believing you."

"Well, believe it!" I shrieked once more before my anger faded into fear that they were going to dismiss me without wages. "You aren't going to fire me over this, are you? Because I really have done nothing wrong!" _What I did was the byproduct of a lust that never should have actually existed—and lust isn't action, my friends!_

"No, we aren't going to dismiss you, dear," McGonagall said sternly, making it seem as if there was a _however_ coming after the _dear_. Which there was of course, but not from her.

"How_ever_," said Snape, hulking over me with this look of frightening madness on his face, "I will _not_ allow you to work in my classroom any longer—you can find some other teacher to assist. Though I _doubt_ anyone will allow you to darken their doorways in this school _ever again_."

On that note, I bolted.

**6:34 p.m.** – Quite simply, I am not going to dinner. I simply cannot afford to. I would much rather sit up here and cry over how in the name of all that is good this has happened to me. One part Lust, two parts Stupidity, and one part Meteorology. Damn wind.

How am I supposed to keep my job here? Snape won't take me, Lupin won't even let me near his classroom, McGonagall's look could kill me right now, and, as for Flitwick, I feel so horrible just from the look of disappointment etched on his supremely old face. Trelawney. Oh God, not Trelawney.

_Merde—merde, merde, merde._

This is the worst birthday ever. And I'm _still_ wearing the Lucky Shamrocks. Not so lucky after all, I suppose.

**Day One-Hundred-Six of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005 **

**Preparing to Floo Jacques**

**5:46 a.m.**

**5:46 a.m.** – I've got to talk to Jacques. Here I was thinking that I could be free and independent, but I can't be without Jacques. Besides, school's going to be hell after this…

As always, I'm transcribing it as it goes…

Fleur: Jacques! I have so much to tell you! I'm so—

Jacques: What the hell were you thinking!

Fleur: What?

I can now clearly see Jacques furiously pacing back and forth, the _Daily Prophet _in his right hand, which he is steadily ripping to pieces. _Quoi?_ The only thing I can see of the _DP_ is a headline of famous wizard Jordan Ferndale burning down a Muggle home.

Jacques: How could you do this to me?

Well, at least he didn't say staff. But I'd like to know what's going on, _s'il vous plait!_

Jacques: How the _hell_ could you do this?

Fleur: Do _what?_ I haven't _done_ anything to you!

Jacques: THIS!

Jacques turns the paper around so I can see it, and too my shock and horror there I am, on the front page, in full Shamrocked glory underneath the headline that says it all: **Fleur Delacour Gets Lucky.** Oh my God. Oh my GOD.

Fleur: Jacques, you have to understand—

Jacques, incredulously: Understand? UNDERSTAND? What—how—I can't even believe this! I thought that—I thought—

But I don't get to hear what Jacques thought because he has just now smashed a lamp. Oh, dear.

Jacques: I mean, I (CRASH!) walk up and (CRASH!) my owl's there to give me the bloody paper and (CRASH!) I look at the bloody front page and you—you—you're _wearing his underwear!_ Why in GOD'S name were you WEARING HIS MOTHER(CRASH!)ING UNDERWEAR!

Fleur: Jacques—

Jacques: What? Do you have some sort of explanation for all this?

I'm getting a bit angry now.

Fleur: YES, I have an explanation for all this, if you'd just give me a bloody chance to talk!

Jacques: Screw the explanations, Fleur—I can't… I can't talk to you right now.

And with that, he storms out of view.

**6:00 a.m. –** Oh my god. Even Jacques seems to think that I have taken indecent liberties with the boy who lived! Everyone's staring at me… breakfast is unbearable; I really should take to eating in my room….

No friends among teachers and certainly no friends among the students; everyone's staring at me but they all refuse to talk to me as their morning mail comes in: newspapers and tabloids and magazines all with the same dreadful cover story…

And here we go: proof that God hates me. Looks like I've got mail too. Instead of a bundle or a small stack of letters, Poussière is carrying a box about twice her size. It drops in front of me and as I turn it upside down, a ridiculous sum of letters falls out.

Oh God.

I close my eyes and select one, ripping it open, realizing that it's probably not a message from the Fleur Delacour Fan Club.

_Dear Ms. Delacour,_

_I want you to know that I think you are a slutty home-wrecker and that you should burn in hell! Die, bitch!_

—_hatesurguts24_

_Dear Fleur Delacour,_

_I hope you know that you've screwed up my life! Me and Harry were going to get married. He like even _proposed_ to me so you can't even pretend that you and Harry have a relationship. So I'm totally like forbidding you to see him because he's my boyfriend even though the papers say he's Hermione's which is a lie! So stay away. Thank you have a nice day._

—_Anna B.,_

_Worcestershire, England_

Oh dear. I don't think I want to read the rest of them. Unfortunately, a dark red one is quivering at the top of the stack and I'm quite afraid it's a bomb, so I had better open it and chuck it out the window or something.

Oh crap—it's a Howler.

_On behalf of the Harmonies, I would like to take this opportunity to say:_

_I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'VE DONE THIS TO HERMIONE AND HARRY YOU HORRID, HORRID GIRL! YOU'VE RUINED EVERYTHING! WHAT SHE AND HARRY HAD WAS SPECIAL AND THANKS TO YOU THAT'S OVER NOW! I HOPE YOU KNOW WE'LL GET YOU BACK SOMEDAY! WATCH YOUR BACK!_

—_the Harmonies_

And now everyone's staring at me more than usual. Oh God. I'm trying not to… but I can't help it… I'm going to cry.

**6:23 a.m.** – Have finally lifted head from breakfast table and stopped making a spectacle of myself. And by this time, one letter is floating above all the rest, singing sweetly… what else but _Shut up He's Mine_ by the Weird Sisters, with this odd, familiar odor….

Renée.

_Sweetheart_ (holy, holy, Renée has _never_ called me sweetheart), _what in the name of God have you gotten yourself into now? I've seen the papers. And I'm coming up to Hogwash. No, don't go thinking I… _care _about you or something, but I need you to cater my wedding. You know, cook or something. You have until next June; I'm sure you can manage it. I have complete (well, partial) faith in you. And I swear to God, the whole of England can hear you crying. You must be crying. I know you. You're crying. Stop crying! Anyway, I'm coming up there tomorrow and you should be ready, because I'm probably going to end up living in your crappy room because, let me guess, the staff hates your guts right now. _

_A bit of advice: stop freaking out, go with the flow, and don't let the mean bitches get you down._

_Sigh —I'm sure you'd die without me._

_Sincerely,_

_R.D._

_P.S. And when asked a question in life, just know that suicide is probably not the right answer._

**6:45 a.m.** – Okay, at least someone I know is coming up. Jacques won't talk to me. He's blocked up his fireplace so every time I try to Floo him I just get a view of a lot of wood. I don't understand this… why is he _acting_ like this? I know he's disappointed in me for screwing up—again—but really… I wish he'd just talk to me…

**8:17 a.m.** – No classes today, of course, since no one can stand to see me in their classrooms. Oh well. I might as well try and do something productive.

**9:00 a.m.** – All right, have drafted lovely letter to Michael explaining everything in the best (though somewhat modified) way I can. Explaining—hopefully coherently—that should he see the paper, he should know that it's not the way it looks. Okay; shall dash down to owls now.

**9:15 a.m.** – Lupin has just stopped me and asked me where I'm going. Where does he _think_ I'm going? To molest some poor innocent child in his dorm room and then cast off his limp body into a broom closet? "To mail Michael a letter," I say cautiously, afraid that he might… seize me by the neck and throttle me to death for sexually abusing his favorite Defense Against the Dark Arts student.

"Pointless."

"What? Why?"

"Professor Turner is in Egypt working on a very important case with the Legion of Egyptian House Elves. They're in the tombs or underground nearly all of the time, and they've requested not to be disturbed by letters or news media or—"

"News media? They're not receiving news media?"

"No."

Then I can go dash off and burn this letter now…

**5:00 p.m.** - AAC

Name: Fleur Delacour, International Poster-Girl for Whoredom According to _Slag Facts Weekly_, THE SLUT according to the Harmonies, _SCREWED_ according to me.

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 137. You know why? Because stress makes me fat. AND DAMN IT I AM **STRESSED!**

Hair: Blonde, "and thin, like the flimsy lie that is her cover story, that whore!" according to an interview with Harry Potter fan club.

Eyes: Blue, "and cold, like the ice rock that is her heart," according to _The National Inquisitor._

Lust Situation: "The dumb freaking girl can't even control herself," according to _The Snitch Report_.

Cyber-Boyfriend: "How could any boyfriend tolerate that kind of brazen tartiness?" according to _Witch's Life_.

Pilates Minutes: Ha. Yeah right. Just because I planned to start doing this four months ago does not mean that I'm actually going to follow through—that's just laughable.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 60, spent hour imagining him just to get to sleep.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 78, but then that didn't work, so I imagined my Jude (who may be a cheater, but, hell, I suppose I am too).

HP-thinking Minutes: 600—he is the cause of my ruin, don't you think I'd think about the sexiness that is my downfall?

HG glares: 134,567,120,581.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: Well, now he thinks I am a whore and will do anyone, even him, he's like, "Floo me, babe." 87.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 894 to 1

Overall Day: "This is a day that will live in a scary, underwear-related infamy," Rita Skeeter, _the Daily Prophet._

**Day One-Hundred-Seven of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, May 4th, 2005 **

**Contemplating My Morality**

**6:21 a.m.**

**6:21 a.m.** – I am beginning to think that I am a horrible person. Lying to my boyfriend, I mean. Not _lying_, really… but _not_ telling him the truth. It's just so… I've got a nasty feeling about it. Then again, screw morality…

**7:12 a.m.** – But I will tell him. Just not _now_.

**7:35 a.m.** – And there is also no way in hell I will tell him that I have a crash/mild-obsession/infatuation with a seventeen year old student… sex-god/Boy-Who-Lived/Quidditch Player. Because then he will think I am perverted. Which I am not, just overcome by lust.

**9:32 a.m.** – So… I have been sitting here staring at the cracks in my ceiling and listening to _Hollaback Girl_ on my Magic Proof iPod because I am jobless.

**10:32 a.m. – **Have now resorted to singing "I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves" to stay awake.

**10:45 a.m.** – Yankee Doodle went to town… riding on a pony…

**11:02 a.m.** – If you're screwed and you know it, clap your hands! If you're jobless and you know it, clap your hands! If you're screwed, in love with Harry, and your sister's getting married, and the mail you get is scary, clap your hands!

**11:05 a.m.** – Fleur, Fleur, Bo, Burr, Fa-nana, Fana, Fo Fur, Fee-Fie Ho Her! _Fleur!_

**11:45 a.m.** – You put your left foot it… you take your left foot out… you put your left foot in and you shake it all about. You do the hokey-pokey and you spin yourself around… that's what it's all about…

**12 NOON** – Is horrid pounding on door. Have had to throw self out of bed and crawl to door on hands and knees in bright blue terrycloth bathrobe that is not made for crawling on floor. "What?" I've said to the door. "Who's there?" No answer. "Hello?" Still nothing. Damn, now must force self to stand. I cringe and stagger towards the doorknob… now the damn thing's opening.

And is Renée, absently applying lipstick in the hall and batting her eyes at a passing student. Well, obviously, she has no problem with the legality of such a suggestion. She slowly turns to face me, smoke trailing out of her cigarette. She looks like a blonde Holly Golightly and am tempted to smack her in my jealousy. "Hello, I'm Renée, and I'll be saving your life today," she smiles.

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A/N: Don't own Yankee Doodle, the Hokey-Pokey, the Name Game—however, I do own the "If You're Screwed and You Know It" song! A bit short, but this was the only place I could stop really… so the saga continues, and:**

**Paige**, you will get what you've been waiting for _next_ chapter, sorry, but I couldn't keep not updating. First _thing_, next chapter, then? Right.

**Fledge: **100th reviewer! (Confetti rains from ceiling!) I LOVE YOU!

**Lizzie: **101st reviewer! (More confetti and some chocolate rains from ceiling!) I think I've already gushed to you, but I ADORE YOU! In a non-lesbian way of course… that comes after everything I say, doesn't it?

Anyway… please review?


	12. Behind the Chocolate Fountain

**Behind the Chocolate Fountain**

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**Day One-Hundred-Eight of Free Independence**

**Thursday, May 5th, 2005 **

**Listening (Oh, God _Listening_) to Renée**

**9:13 a.m.**

**9:13 a.m.** – _She goes on and on and on and on. _From yesterday, I opened the door, and she was just standing there—standing there!—smiling, looking beautiful—beautiful!—at _my _door!—mine! And what does she mean she'll be "saving my life today?" What if I'd like to _die_, hmmm? Bet she never considered that!

So anyway, she just waltzes her butt on into my room, spreading the smoke from her cigarette all over the room, and then snaps it out of existence with a silent spell. Renée is only vaguely familiar with _one_ type of wand by now. "Soooo," she says, strolling through and looking around as if poised to say _What a Dump_, "how was it?"

"It?"

"It." Silence. "You know, _it_… with _Harry! _How was _it_ with Harry?"

"There was no _it_ with Harry!"

"What do you _mean_ there was no _it_ with Harry—of _course_ there was _it_ with Harry!"

"No, I swear—there was no _it_ with Harry!"

She stops and stares at me with a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. "You mean you've gone and gotten yourself in every paper in the wizarding _world_, made countless people hate you, and embarrassed yourself to no _end_, and you _didn't even get laid?_"

Well, it sounds bad when you put it like that. "Um… yes."

"My, Fleur, you're an even bigger failure than I'd thought," she says succinctly, looking at me as if she's never seen me before. I'm about to speak up and protest when she says, "Never mind, don't go getting all _mad_ at me—I didn't expect you to have actually warranted all this media attention anyway. Though, may I ask, if there was no _it_ with the Boy Who Lived, then why in the name of all that is holy were you wearing his boxers?"

"BECAUSE YOU GAVE THEM TO ME, YOU EVIL WITCH!"

Because, really, this is all Damn Renée's fault. Giving me Harry Potter's boxers… what was she thinking? Does she _want_ to kill me…?

"I didn't _tell_ you to put them on," she says.

"It was _implied!_"

"No, it _wasn't_! 'Return to owner' and 'try them on' are _not_ the same thing!"

"Fine! Whatever! I don't care!" I sink down onto my bed and stick my earphones into my ears to continue listening to _Hollaback Girl_. Only to have Renée yank them out again, of course.

"Okay, no more of this," she says. "What are you going to do now?"

"Cry?"

"Wrong," she says.

"Eat?"

"Wrong."

"Sleep?"

"No. You're going to fix this, that's what you're going to do." And I would very much like to know exactly how she plans on doing this.

**10:00 a.m.** – According to Renée, I have to act and I have to act fast. I have just played the role of Angelina Jolie to a Brad-and-Jen-like split—because, undoubtedly, Harry and Hermione have split—and, as far as Renée is concerned, if I don't do something quick, Hermione will end up like Jennifer Aniston, much-beloved, while I am hated by all.

"Firstly, you mustn't let yourself go," she said, clearly making a note of my turquoise bathrobe and planning to have it destroyed. "No emotional eating, no whining, not any of that—you mustn't let people think that they've gotten to you or that you're unhappy." She said this seriously, with the air of someone who's well-practiced in this strange field. "You must look fabulous, but not so fabulous that they think you're trying to be fabulous, and above all you must remember that _you're_ the victim here."

"How can I possibly be the victim?" I asked, puzzled. "I was wearing his _underwear_, how am I supposed to explain that?"

"How did you escape being fired?" she asked.

"Well, I just told them it wasn't Harry's underwear."

"Exactly, just do that. Just say it was very similar looking underwear, but not the same, that you are shocked by the accusations towards you, and that you and Harry are… you're nothing more than acquaintances and that's all," she said, summing it all up happily. But unfortunately for her, I wasn't as happy and grateful-looking as she would have liked for me to be. "What's the matter? Don't you… Oh, _I_ get it. You've got a crush on him, haven't you?"

"_No…_"

"God, you're a horrible liar—and worse—one with no impulse control. We should just lobotomize you and get it over with," she suggested passively, while inside my head I was screaming "OH MY GOD, SHE KNOWS SHE KNOWS SHE KNOWS!" She _knows!_ Then again, should I be surprised? Wouldn't everyone know, considering that I was wearing his Lucky Shamrocks? But still! _She knows!_ She's _not supposed to know!_

"What? Did you think I wouldn't know?"

_She's not supposed to know!_

**11:02 a.m.** – I tried to reach for the Nutri-grain bars I have hidden under my bed only to have _her_ throw _Halcius Pottotius and the Book of Love_ at my head! "What do you think you're doing?"

"Um… well, before I was _trying not to starve to death in my own room_, but I suppose having _my own books_ chucked at me is just as good!"

"What part of 'Don't let yourself go' don't you understand?" She shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Oh right… I forgot that in Fleur-World _yes_ means _no,_ _black_ means _white_, _return to owner_ means _try them on_, and _stay away from me you freak _means _kiss me, please!"_

"What?"

"Do I have to repeat this to you all over again? _Yes_ means _no—"_

"NO, I mean the part about _stay away from me you freak_ meaning _kiss me, please?_ How did that come into it?"

"Oh darling, don't you read the tabloids? You can't be _in_ the papers and not read the papers," she says, pulling _The Snitch Report_ out from under a pile of self-help books on my nightstand. She tosses it lightly at my head and this time I catch it, my eyes instantly going to the headline: **Fatal Attraction.**

And, of course, I immediately thought, "OHHHHHHHHHH CRAP. I don't even want to read it—it's probably horrid and evil BS that isn't even worth the paper it's printed on." And then I snatched for it because I knew I was going to read it. And do you know what it was about?

Some random fame-grabbing **ASS WIPE **sold this DUMBASS story to this DUMBASS magazine on how I am **STALKING **Harry!

After reading it, I proceeded to scream obscene words and rip the article to pieces, rather like I would have if it had been _Harry and Hermione: Couple of the Year Part II. _After which Renée nodded sympathetically as if she in the same situation would have done the same thing. "You see? Darling, people are going to think you are _crazy_ if you don't shape up and make a statement."

"Make a statement? Do you think I'm _sane_ enough right now to make a statement!" I screeched at her, grabbing for my iPod and stubbornly sticking the earphones back in my ears, only to find that Renée had changed the song to _Most People I Know Think That I'm Crazy_. So I chucked it at her head, which she deflected with a Shielding Spell, which caused my own iPod to smack me in the face. Which caused me to fall down to the floor and start crying next to _Halcius Pottotius and the Book of Love._

"Oh my _God_," she said, looking down at me in her own form of Barbie sympathy. "It's okay," she says, getting down on her knees to give me a hug. She sighs. "I hope you know I will never do this again."

"Oh, I figured that," I said.

**12 NOON –** "When are you going to see him next? This 'day-after' is absolutely crucial. You will have to assess his feelings," she says, buttering her toast, "and do some major damage control. And if you can't make a coherent sentence fall out of your hopeless mouth, then you will have to look really, really hot." She looked at me and shuddered.

What? It's not _that_ unbelievable! So I'll just suck in my stomach now…

"ASP… _oh God…_"

"What?" she asks, pausing with her toast halfway to her blinding white teeth—seriously, they're so white, I'm sure they glow in the dark as if they are radioactive.

"Michael's not going to be there; I'm going to have to be with him all alone in the dungeons…" I've experienced enough in life to know that nothing good can come of being stuck alone in the dungeons with a desirable boy. Man… boy… man… boy-man hybrid thing… Harry. Nothing good can come of being stuck alone in the dungeons with Harry.

Especially when I desperately want to back him against the wall and shag his gorgeous brains out.

Which I will not do, because though it is legal it is immoral as I have a _boyfriend_—I have a _boyfriend_—I have a_ boyfriend_. And cheating on your significant other is a Fernando thing to do. Especially if it involves a quick shag in the dungeons. So I won't. Nope. Not me. Not shagging Boy Who Lived… not fantasizing about shagging the Boy Who Lived… not drooling onto my French toast imagining self shagging the Boy Who Lived….

"Fleur, stop drooling on your toast. Someone is going to take a picture and sell it to _The National Inquisitor_," warns Renée.

"I wasn't!—_fine_."

**2:34 p.m.** – I swear, Renée can read inside people's minds. Or perhaps I am just an open book. "Stop thinking about him, Fleur," she says in that all-knowing way.

"I wasn't thinking… that hard about him…"

"Stop thinking about him, stop looking at him, stop imagining yourself furiously shagging his brains out in the dungeons, just stop freaking out until you absolutely have to," she says in her horrid bossy way.

"Renée, has it ever occurred to you that _freaking out is what I do?_"

Renée turned around to look at me and smiled in that same familiar coy, annoying way. "Oh, Fleur… sweet, naïve, fickle, faint-hearted, absolutely insane, screw-up Fleur. I had already figured that out. You can freak out all you want—it just won't help you at all."

_Well, thanks!_

**4:45 p.m.** – Now Renée is making fun of Halcius Pottotius! "Oh my goodness, Fleur, you _know_ how completely absurd these books are—why do you read them? I mean, think about it. There's supposedly this _secret magical medieval world_ that _nobody_ knows about and some _orphan kid_ who has some sort of _destiny_ to avenge the death of his parents, according to some _prophecy_ that he's going to kill Lord Something-and-Such—"

"Bacilledemort!" I exclaim.

"And so he runs off to _knight school_ and becomes the _greatest medieval wizarding champion ever_, and is almost killed by this Lord Bacilledemort like five times. What are the odds of _that_ happening? Why isn't he dead?"

"Because he's 'The Knight Who Shined!'"

She picks up another book. "And, OK, this latest book? _Halcius Pottotius and the Raging Hormones?"_ For the record, it's _definitely_ not called _Halcius Pottotius and the Raging Hormones._ "Like, for no apparent reason, suddenly everyone's making out with everyone in their dinky medieval clothes and shooting off love spells. 'Oh, Halcius, hold me closer, thou sexy beast!' I mean, seriously."

I give her a look of exasperation. "The line is, 'Oh, Halcius, hold me closer, stir my cauldron, you bubbling pot of love.'" And it has just now struck me how completely odd that sounds when you _actually_ say it.

"Ooh, ooh, and listen to this line… 'When Halcius saw Geneva, suddenly out of nowhere, a monster rose inside of him, purring, 'Geneva! Geneva!'"

"NO!"

This is what happens when you let your sister mock parts of the book you haven't even finished reading yet. "Halcius/Geneva? Halcius/Geneva! WHY GOD WHY?"

"Oh… is that bad?"

**5:00 p.m.** – Am now rocking back and forth in my room in manner of mental patient, whispering to self, "There is always fanfiction, there is always fanfiction…." How could Athena O'Hereagall do this to her loving, adoring fans? We have made her who she is! Because of us, her books are bestselling, she's the richest woman in… wherever the heck she lives, and her books have been turned into award-winning plays of the same names! (Even though most people aren't true fans—they only attend because the actor who plays Halcius, Nathaniel Sutcliffe, is really hot. Jailbait. But hot.) How could she…?

**7:12 p.m.** – Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Screw _Halcius Pottotius_ (wish I could, but not the point)! I have to be with Harry in forty-eight minutes, all alone for two hours… he's going to rail at me on how I've ruined his life, and hate me forever, and never ever want to kiss me… _again_. Going to shoot self. Damn, wizarding world equals horrid lack of guns, but that's what wands are for—am just going to run over to the corner, grab my wand and _Avada Kedavra_ my problems away…

**7:33 p.m.** – Stupid people who think suicide is not the answer… Renée had to run over, smack me upside the head, and say, "Go down to the dungeons and do it right or I'll have your head, do you hear me, you stupid little wench?"

**7:55 p.m.** – Okay… I am going to get up and go to the dungeons now.

**7:57 p.m.** – I am trying to make myself get up and go to the dungeons, and obviously it is not working as I am supposed to be there in three minutes. Oh, dear, seems that Renée is charging at me saying something about how if I don't want to end up like some sort of Angelina Ho-Lie, I should get my ass up and go talk Harry into making a statement. Good Lord, she's scary… am beginning to feel remorse for poor, innocent Aylesford…

**Day One-Hundred-Eight of Free Independence**

**Friday, May 6th, 2005 **

**Breathing Heavily, Going Mad, Reliving Everything**

**2:00 a.m.**

**2:00 a.m.** – I know it's two a.m. and everything, but how can I expect to be asleep after _what has just happened!_ All right, calming down now; I shall stop being so dramatic.

I'm a drama queen! This is what I _do!_

_Breathe… breathe…_ So. I shall recount the events of the night to you. And then destroy these pages before they are used against me in a court of vicious teenage girls (have just realized that I am no longer part of this sect as am mature twenty-year-old, not hormonal nineteen-year-old any longer, though actions may say otherwise).

_So. _I walked through the door, ASP Handbook in hand, all nervous, wishing that when Renée fixed me a gingersnap cocktail to go with lunch that there had been a little more _snap_ in it, and he was _there_. Leaning on the desk, looking at me walk in.

"Hello," I said, but it wasn't just a hello—it was a squeaky, high-pitched question of a _hello, _as if I were asking whether or not _hello_ was the actual English word for _bonjour_ or _bonsoir_ taking into account the whole dark, nocturnal night-ness of it all.

"Hello." See when _he_ says hello, it's more of this sexy "I've got something on my mind" hello, not a question at all.

"Okay, so we have this lesson-thingy today that we have to do," I said—breathlessly, naturally, since I had to sprint to the dungeons to get there in time. (**NTS** – Stop being so late to everything.) "Because you will have to take the ASPIRE at the end of the month, I am going to have to speed through everything and prepare you, even though Michael's really better at these things, but he's off with some house elves doing his thing in the ground—"

"ASPIRE?"

"Oh," I said, having just then realized that I'd been whizzing through everything so fast that I'd never bothered to explain what ASPIRE stood for. "The ASPIRE is the Alternative Self-Protection International Requisite Exam; it's just to make sure that if some crazy person kidnaps you, you'll be able to stun them with your good looks long enough to get away," I smiled. And then I realized that smiling might seem creepy, so I tried to retrieve a poker face from behind my "am I fat?" face.

"Okay."

And then I started going crazy. _Why isn't he asking me about what happened? Why isn't he yelling at me? What's going on? What's going on!_

So I started reading about how meditation helps with the issue of self-control, yanking out the French meditation book that I bought when I decided that being Zen was cool—and it was until my mother started with it. We both sat down on the ground in our Zen cross-legged position and I began to read from _Meditation for the Teenage Soul._ "Okay, the book says that now you should... take hold of your fantasy place?"

Harry blushed. "Um… I don't usually take hold of my fantasy place in public…"

Which caused me to gasp and drop _Meditation for the Teenage Soul_. "You know, Harry, that's probably a good thing…. I think we should move on." Flipping through the ASP Handbook, I searched for the next lesson, which happened to be 11-6: Kissing Lessons. And that seemed like a bad idea. So I decided it would be question time.

"Harry, do you have any specific questions?"

"As a matter of fact, I have one…" he said, looking at me tentatively.

"Okay, go ahead, shoot."

"Why exactly were you wearing my underwear?" Okay. It wasn't like I didn't expect him to ask this question, but I felt like a deer in the headlights when he did. Or, perhaps, Snape faced with the prospect of washing his hair. Similar reactions—shocked, stunned, perhaps facing death.

"Um… you see… okay. I really don't have a good explanation for why I was wearing your boxers, except that I was being really stupid and it's not that I actually stole them or anything, because that was my crazy sister, who was going to sell them at auction before she had some random spasm of morality and decided to fob them off on me. And okay, at this point I probably should have just given them to you, but… you're like a celebrity, okay, and you're a very… attractive… celebrity… and it's not just that you're a celebrity, because that's not all I care about, you know? But you're so… cute, and you were so nice to me before and… so… _your underwear was RIGHT THERE_, how could I not put it on! I mean, _yes_, that sounds creepy and it _is_ creepy, but it's what I did, and I swear I washed them, okay? It's not my fault I have a crush on you!"

"You have a crush on me?"

Crap.

Why did I have to use a childish, _teen_ phrase like "have a crush," instead of a mature 20-year-old phrase like "have feelings for?" (**NTS –** Attempt to be more 20 years old.)

"Well, I don't mean… _crush_, more like… _emotions_ of a _romantic_ nature…" I said forcedly, searching for mature words in my vocabulary—however, all those mature words were dirty, so I had to scrap them. There was a long silence, so I searched around in my mind for something—_anything_ to say. "But that doesn't matter, you know!" I blurted out suddenly.

"It doesn't?" he asked pensively, looking at me in his lovely gorgeous way—and then he had to stand up and look down at me in a way that is even more lovely and gorgeous—which isn't fair, because we were in a place of education! It may have been ASP, but that is _still_ educational! It was _sacrilege_ how he was looking at me—like having sex in a church!

"No, because… because… because I'm a teacher!"

"And… I'm a student?"

"Exactly! And I'm 20 years old! I'm a mature individual!"

"And I'm a teenage boy!"

_There's the spirit!_

"Exactly! And we should have nothing to do with one another!"

"Nothing!" he agreed vehemently.

"Because neither one of us in this room want to shag each other!"

"Because we're not attracted to each other!"

"All the rumors about this supposed attraction are _lies!"_

"Where do they get these things? We're not interested in each other!" he exclaimed.

"Right! Because that would be _wrong!"_

"Sick and wrong!"

"So we _won't_ do anything we won't do something we might regret!"

"Because we will regret it!"

"Here's to not being attracted to each other!"

"Hear, hear!"

And somewhere between all these _hear, hears_ and declarations of _sick and wrong_, our lips became inexplicably close to each other. And then, just completely by accident, in a moment of confusion, we both accidentally moved _forward_ instead of _backward_, the way we _meant_ to go, and our lips _accidentally_ ran into each other.

About four or five times. Scratch that. Really, it was just that there was confusion and then they sort of fused together… I think it was some sort of chemical reaction… none of it was our fault. Really, I swear.

He's a really good kisser. He is an extraordinarily good kisser.

And then there came the aftershock, which consisted of us just staring at each other in shock and horror and some (minor) wishing that some sort of mystical-lip-fusion would reoccur… it was minor, I swear…

It was major.

I just gasped. "You know, that never happened." The sooner I forget this happened, the sooner I can return my life to semi-sort-of-normal; I can't have people finding about this and sending me more hate mail—I really don't think I can handle it. But now there's this lovely image of Harry and I skipping into the sunset in my head that I can't seem to erase.

"You're exactly right—never happened," he said, a look of minor (okay, fine, _major_) disappointment on his face. _The boy catches on fast_.

"I think we should end this lesson early," I suggested with the disgusting remembrance that I am actually his teacher. (**NTS** – Find some way to erase disgusting teacher feeling.)

"Right…" he said with this horrid uncertainty on his face.

"Okay. I'm going to go forget this ever—_never_ happened," I said, scurrying towards the exit.

"Wait, Fleur…" said Harry, in that heart-wrenching voice that people are allowed to have in movies and in trashy romances, but not in real-life, because that's just too much for an actual person to handle. And then, he rushed up to me… and started kissing me again… oh my God… and I just had to ask… "What about Hermione?"

Mood-killer, much?

"Oh God… you're right, you're so right Fleur," Harry said in his sweet, sad voice. Was altogether too close to him; his voice is all the more horridly heartbreaking when it's inches away from your ear. It made me wish I that I could be wrong. "If it weren't for… I mean, she's my best friend, Fleur, and I—"

"I know." He's her best friend, she's his best friend, he doesn't want to lose her, and all the other usual sweet tosh. "I—I could help?"

_Help? WHY DID I OFFER TO HELP?_

"Help?"

My mouth just keeps moving! It just keeps moving against my will!

"I mean, I'm a girl and she's a girl and we know what girls like, and I think if you said it the right way… I mean, _hell_, if you said _anything_ the right way… anyway, I think she'll take you… back." I don't want her to take him back; if she takes him back, I'll go insane. I'll have to see them back together again, gazing in adoring commitment at each other, and _her_ gleaming triumphantly in my direction.

"Oh, good… good…" No. It's not good—it's so bad that I'm going to feel physically ill every time I'm around her.

"Um… so, just… come by… later… we can figure this out next ASP and then you can start studying for the ASPIRE, I guess." Am horrid teacher. Do not know why am still here. In fact, wish I weren't still here—being here is like being slowly toasted with cheese. It's horrible wanting something you can't and shouldn't want to have! Am drawing horrible parallels to Harmonia Granker _à la Halcius Pottotius and His Fair Lady_; feel as if am watching my own personal Halcius slip into the hands of someone else, Geneva Snitchley or similar. Horribly wonderful image of Harry on a horse as I sit in castle tower _comme une Rapunzel moderne_. He is shouting, "Don't worry—just hold on!" as he is on his way to rescue me, and is swelling wave of faith within me, which leads to more warm/fuzzy emotions. Should erase this short film from head; is not doing any good: only causing more inevitable mushiness and sadness.

So anyway, dashed out the door and back to room before we could start kissing again. Thank God.

Goddamnit.

**4:00 a.m. –** Kissing Harry. In my head I am still kissing Harry. But, really, I should be… what am I supposed to be doing?

_Sleeping_, right.

**4:05 a.m.** – Sleeping is impossible; there's nothing else to do. So I will do the only thing I can do, despite the fact that it will probably result in more smashed containers: floo Jacques.

Squee! He's there! GAAAAAH! UNDERWEAR! (Though much-improved boxers, is still underwear!) I shall have to add this to the _Forbids _list in the _Rules of Fleur Handbook._

Oh, goody! Pants!

Jacques: Do you know what time it is?

Fleur: 4 o'clock 5 minutes and 38 seconds.

Jacques: Anyone else feeling the déjà vu?

Fleur: Okay. Before you yell at me, I have to yell at you, okay? Okay… deep breath… OH MY GOD, DO YOU THINK I AM SOME KIND OF _WHORE_, YOU STUPID IDIOT? DO YOU THINK I GO AROUND _MOLESTING TEENAGE BOYS? _WHERE THE HELL DO YOU GET OFF READING DUMBASS TABLOIDS AND THINKING THEY ARE TRUE? YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND—YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO KNOW ME! YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT RENÉE IS THE ONLY _WHORE_ IN MY FAMILY! OKAY? FLEUR DELACOUR IS _NOBODY'S_ WHORE! … Okay, I'm done.

Jacques: I know—you're right. I've been incredibly stupid.

Fleur: No, this is the part where you're all defensive and then I'm all "but I'm right" and then you concede and we're best friends again. You're skipping a part.

Jacques: You're hilarious.

Fleur: Okay. This is just as good. I'm flooing you because: a) I am sad out of my mind because everybody thinks _je suis une tarte_ b) Renée is not a big help, since all she ever does is makes me feel bad and c) the 3rd book is Halcius/Geneva! Oh, and I've just been very stupid and done something crazy and wrong, but that's not the point.

Jacques: Halcius/Geneva? Oh, Fleur, I'm sorry.

Fleur: Sigh. It's to be expected, I suppose. You never know when all those really annoying people turn out to be right. I mean, not to be all against them and everything but… _why!_

Jacques: Everyone knows Athena O'Hereagall is on crack, Fleur.

Fleur: Really?

Jacques: Who else but a person on crack would write a series about an orphan boy with a constellation on his forehead?

Fleur: So she's really on crack?

Jacques: No. I'm just trying to make you feel better.

Fleur: Oh.

Jacques: So tell me about the crazy and wrong thing that you have done.

Fleur: I was hoping you'd forget to ask me about that.

Jacques: Well, I didn't. Have you forgotten who I am?

Fleur: It's not really that important.

Jacques: Are you sure?

Fleur: I'm totally sure.

Jacques: Should I come up there? I mean, I have no problem with coming up to England again.

Fleur: But _Jacques,_ doing that would take the _independence_ out of my free independence! And then I'd just be _free!_ And who gives a crap about being _free_ if they're dependent? You might as well _not_ be free.

Jacques: Somewhere in there, you have a point. Okay. Are you sure?

Fleur: Completely sure. Spend your time up there with whatever people you spend time with without my knowledge.

Jacques: Janine.

Fleur: Right. Spend your time up there with J—_oh my GOD, Janine is up there?_

Jacques: Well… yes.

Fleur: _Why?_ Is there some reason that you have secretly spirited away my ex-not-really-best-friend up to your individual _meant for one person unless that other person is me_ apartment?

See, this is the part where the suppressed possessive best friend leaps out with her Knife of OCD-ness and starts harping on everything. This was probably a side effect of kissing Harry: extreme paranoia. (**NTS** – Never kiss Harry again.) (**Further NTS** – Pick "notes-to-self" that are easier to follow.)

Jacques: Well, yes. We're sort of—

Fleur: SEEING EACH OTHER?

Jacques: Sometimes I wonder my being here is necessary for this to be a conversation.

Fleur: But Jacques, she is the incarnation of all evil!

Jacques: I could have sworn that was Renée.

Fleur: Well, it _is_, but she's family so that kind of evil is a given. Janine isn't family, so she doesn't have the right to be so darn evil to me! And since when have you been such a bad judge of character?

Jacques: Actually, as I'm sure you'll recall, I've been wrong about people before.

Fleur: Okay. So scratch that. Are you sure you know what you're doing? I mean, you haven't been in a relationship since Gretchen. Are you sure you're ready to be back on the market again?

Jacques: Why? Am I like a carton of milk? Is there an expiration date or something?

Fleur: No, darling, men don't have expiration dates. Except death—death definitely rules out being on the market—for most people.

Jacques: I don't understand any of your rules.

Fleur: That's because these are new! I've never had to make up rules for "Best Friend Dating Incarnation of All Evil" before! Besides, Gretchen seriously trampled on your heart. As I recall, since the end of your relationship with Gretchen, you have been totally non-responsive to any sort of romantic notions, it's like you're still in love with her—oh my God, are you still in love with her?

Jacques: No, Fleur, I am not still in love with Gretchen.

Fleur: Are you sure? Is this your extremely late-reaction rebound relationship? Are you just using Janine to make yourself feel better about what happened with Gretchen?

Jacques: Noooo.

Fleur: What _did_ happen with Gretchen anyway? Why _did_ you guys break up?

Jacques: It doesn't matter.

Fleur: Of course it matters—_Witches in Relationship Ditches_ says that the only way you can prevent more painful breakups is to learn from your mistakes in past relationships.

Jacques: The more you say relationships, the more my head hurts. It's five-twenty-two, Fleur; why don't we both just go to bed?

Fleur: You should know I can't sleep after this! You're dating Janine, the switch-bitching ex-friend who could have spared me a potential lifetime of embarrassment and _didn't_; Renée's here, making me feel like a fat, stupid hag compared to her with her thriving engagement and horrid fabulousness; and I've just spent an entire ASP session getting snogged the Boy Who Lived and now I am consumed in a fit of guilty passion! Do you know how stressful—

Jacques: YOU DID WHAT?

Fleur: Erm… nothing?

Jacques: Oh my GOD!

Fleur: But I swear I didn't have sex with him!

Jacques: But! But! But kissing him is just as bad!

Fleur: Except you can't get pregnant kissing…

Jacques: SO? You can get _mono_ from kissing!

Fleur: It's better than an STD!

Jacques: You could get _herpes _from kissing!

Fleur: SO!

Jacques: You are going to _die_ from herpes!

Fleur: I am not going to _die_ from herpes! No one dies from herpes!

Jacques: There's a first time for everything!

Fleur: You're being hysterical!

Jacques: What if you die? What am I supposed to do if you die—from herpes?

Fleur: Okay. Chill. Relax. Chillax, okay? I am totally never going to do it again, because I have concocted a brilliant albeit hypothetical plan to get Harry and Hermione back together, and then I am going to make a statement to the effect that I never screwed the BWL, okay? And then the school year is going to be over, and I will never see him again, and I can probably find some job temping at some agency or something and launch a career at a place that doesn't smell perpetually of pumpkin juice and ferrets, okay? And then you can forgive me and I can be okay with you and Janine and we can all go to Renée's wedding and be happy, right? And then… and then… well, it all ends when we're happy!

Jacques: Really, you talk faster than the speed of sound. It's a miracle that anyone ever understands a thing you say.

Fleur: Well, did you catch the part about us all being happy?

Jacques: Yes.

Fleur: Okay, good, because that's the only part that actually matters. Oh crap, Renée's waking up. She's going to throw more books at my head and tell me to work out! Kiss-kiss, love you miss you see you!

Jacques: Love you miss you see you too.

Fleur: What about the kiss-kiss?

Jacques: Fleur. My pain tolerance goes about up to the word _chouchou_; after that, I can't take anymore cute, fluffy words.

Fleur: Fine. Just, _love you miss you see you_, then. You forgive me?

Jacques: If you forgive me.

Fleur: I adore you.

Jacques: Then I forgive you.

**7:37 a.m.** – Yummy Jacques-Reconciliation bliss is unfortunately counteracted by icky Harry-Guilt. Was unable to eat breakfast/anything, which made Renée insanely happy. She says I am taking a step in the right direction. But if I have to contract Harry-Guilt to stop overeating, is this even worth it?

**10:34 a.m. – **Life is very boring right now, especially as all Renée will say is, "Work out, stop eating, life might seem less boring if you were drunk." However, since Hogwarts doesn't serve alcohol, I have no access to either Bellini or Martini—unfortunately Renée has exhausted the supply of vodka in the room. So am sitting here in depressing sobriety… it's definitely no fun going outside at Hogwarts once all the snow has melted.

**12 NOON** – Oh dear; I was very much focused on not eating lunch, when Snappy had to come and approach me. "I rarely rush into anything," he begins, which is a sign of strange things to come, "and I don't decide anything without careful meditation… so you should consider yourself lucky that I am welcoming you back to the Potions classroom."

Ah, and twenty-year-age gap lust prevails.

"Um, well…" I began, drumming my fingers on the bagel that Renée ordered me not to eat, "I'm very flattered."

"You should be," he said, after which he proceeded to slink off back to his coffin before the light of day killed him or Colin Creevey, hopped up on Ritalin, ran after him wielding garlic and a wooden stake.

Um… yay?

**1:34 p.m.** – Suppose will restart Potions job on Monday, but this is definitely not affecting decision to find alternative income through job not involving cute underage boys. (**NTS **– Do not apply for incredibly appealing job teaching at all-boys boarding school.) After this year, will have to go conjure up lucrative career involving world-travel and enough expendable income to spend on fabulous things like shoes and _plus cher_ jeans.

_Fleur Delacour's Possible Careers_

1) Secret Agent. Could be like ASP-ed up Jane Bond, and wander around countries doing cool secret agent-y things. However, unlikely, as face has been plastered on papers across the world, and everyone would recognize me—a bit discouraging for the whole anonymous career thing. Will just have to buy cool Chanel sunglasses that record everything you see on black market.

2) Journalist. Despite grudges held against nasty newspapers who run BS stories on supposed trysts that never happened (except for perhaps after said newspapers were printed), would like v. much to reform journalism industry and write hard-hitting stories on tough issues… or I could do the Style section and tell everyone that _Irisé_ is the Wizard version of Michael Kors meets Dolce & Gabbana meets Chanel on acid.

3) Trashy Novelist. I mean, not a novelist that is trashy, but a novelist who writes about trashy situations involving fictional characters. I mean, how hard could it be? Tall Dark and Handsome Boy meets Absolutely-Gorgeous-But-No-One-Knows-It-But-Him Girl! There are "some complications," but through the "power of their love" they pull through! Unfortunately, would rather read trashy novels than write them: somehow reading them makes me feel less guilty than actually writing them would.

4) Ambassador! I could be a French Ambassador to England! Except that all of England/World sort of despises me at the moment, which they may or may not ever get over. But then, every ambassador's got to start somewhere, eh? (**NTS** – Am not Canadian. Stop saying "eh.")

**3:00 p.m.** – Renée is looking at me suspiciously, staring at me silently for an unsettling length of time. Suddenly, she gasps. "OH MY GOD, YOU MADE OUT WITH HIM."

"Who?"

"What do you mean _who?_ Who the hell do you think? _You made out with Harry Potter, you tramp!"_ At least she whisper-shouts, unlike Jacques who might as well use megaphones to communicate—but what right does _she_ have to call _me_ a tramp? That tramp.

"I'm not a tramp! And how did you know?"

She shook her head and sighed. "Here's a comb. You have make-out hair."

"Make-out hair!"

There's nothing that says "I've just made out with someone I'm totally not supposed to" like make-out hair. With my luck, I'll have to use six bottles of shampoo to reverse it—make-out hair is the one hair problem I've ever encountered that withstands six different types of Bad Hair Day Spells.

**4:30 p.m. – **"So how was it?" smiles Renée, smoking another cigarette against my advice. By the end of this seemingly never-ending school year, I'll have lung cancer from all this second hand smoke. Meanwhile, Renée will smoke a pack a day and live forever.

"It?"

"Yes! Kissing Harry! How was it?"

Does she actually want me to describe kissing Harry? Does she actually think that's _possible?_

"It was… he was…. And it was really… and he was like… and I don't even… I mean, it's really strange but I can't help feeling… and so after we… it was just so… so, yeah, it was just… yeah."

"That good, huh?" Thank God that someone understands that when one is at a loss for words, it doesn't make someone stupid, it just means they probably have Harry Potter syndrome, which is a legitimate disease, thank you. "Well, I'll have to warn you—it doesn't come without side effects."

"I know," I said. It's not like I haven't been kissed phenomenally before… admittedly, these times have been few and far between (and just over half of these instances have been imaginary), but it's still been done. I'm sure this won't be much different: obsession, impulsiveness, fainting and the like.

"No, you don't know, Fleur—you think you know? You don't know. You'll see though."

_Whatever._

**6:45 a.m.** – The usual:

Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 132. Yay! Five pounds lighter! Perhaps telepathic weight is like water-weight, and can eventually go away!

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: What do you think?

Cyber-boyfriend: Away. Thank God. I'd have to get rid of the Cyber-boyfriend section of my State of Affairs if he were actually here. Though am feeling really guilty… damn you, you sexy thing, Harry, damn you.

Pilates Minutes: 45. I haven't done this much Pilates practically _ever._ Renée is _mean_.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 60. A good even hour. Good for me! Oh wait… should be de-Americanizing—_bad_ for me.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 123. He's gotten hotter, bouncing back from the brief period in which he wasn't as hot as he used to be. Thank God for you, you hot British creature.

HP-thinking Minutes: 230… but that is _not_ my fault. Wouldn't you be thinking about him too? But if you are, don't waste your time—if too many people in the world start thinking about him at the exact same time, I've got this theory that he'll spontaneously combust. Too much cosmic pressure.

HG glares: 12—I've been hiding from her, so that's all.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 33—I've been hiding from him too, but somehow he seems to show up everywhere, looking sleazy and pale and confident as always. I'd love to crush his annoying spirit, but it's doubtful that is possible.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 56 to 1

Overall Day: Jacques Forgiveness! Squee!

**Day One-Hundred-Eleven of Free Independence**

**Monday, May 9th, 2005 **

**On the Scale**

**6:40 a.m.**

**5:40 a.m.** – Oh my. Am standing on the scale not quite believing what I am seeing, and Renée is standing behind me with this "told you so" look on her face. "I told you there would be side effects, Fleur, and you were all 'whatever' when you should have listened to me."

"This isn't a side effect! This is _wonderful!"_ I'm skinny! I'm skinny! Okay. Not skinny. But not as fat as before—120! I am one-hundred-and-twenty pounds! I have never been one-hundred-and-twenty pounds before, not all this year!

**6:00 a.m.** – Ugh… feel horrible… was skinny, was happy, am now just horribly icky-feeling. Am horrid invalid, and Renée still has her "told you so" look on. Would kill her, but don't have the energy.

"See? Now you feel sick."

"Why don't you just tell me what's wrong with me and get it out of your system? I know you're dying to tell me," I said, wishing I could dash up to my room and retrieve the box of Nutri-grain bars that is oh-so far away. Unfortunately, Renée is standing in front of me, looking triumphant.

She looks at me with a modicum of pity. "Oh, Fleur… you have Harryrexia. Anyone who's ever even looked at a modern magazine has heard of it—girls everywhere after meeting him losing a dramatic amount of weight, growing weaker, eventually having hallucinations and more recently sending you hate-mail. He just has that effect on women," she said thoughtfully and dramatically.

"You're not serious."

"Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating—but you're not hungry, are you?"

"No, but—"

"Exactly. You have Harryrexia, you won't eat a thing for days, and you won't care because who are you thinking about? Harry. You must see my point. The boy's like a disease. Gets in your system, nearly impossible to get him out—but you'll be skinny like me!"

_Shut up!_

"You may start to feel dizzy. As a matter of fact, you should have started feeling dizzy yesterday. You may start fainting when you see him, but that's rare—after all, you've been teaching him for like three months or something, your side effects won't be that severe."

"You're really enjoying being my doctor today, aren't you?" I ask, feeling whiny, wondering whether or not I'll be hungry enough by dinner to eat the chocolate cake that the house elves are carting off to the kitchens.

"I told you I'd save your life, you ungrateful flake, you."

Her mouth keeps moving, but all I hear is evil.

**12 NOON –** I ACTUALLY HAD TO TEACH. Evil double-crossing Snappy! I'm not his assistant after all! He's left me the entire bloody post! I'm the mother-fricking _Potions Mistress!_ He's gone and bloody retired, the bloody bastard! I had to freaking pay attention instead of taking notes and fantasizing!

The outrage!

I couldn't even… and worse, he didn't tell me, so I walked into the classroom, hopped onto my usual spot on the desk, and swung my legs childishly, waiting for _a Potions Master that never came_. And then I realized with shock and horror that I would have to teach the lesson all by my lonesome, in front of the people that hate me! Why the hell does Harry's class always have to be _right there_ whenever I have to do _anything_? Just imagine him there, why don't you? Sitting there with his gorgeous green eyes tapping his quill on the table, wondering when class would begin, perhaps absently scratching his nose in a weirdly sexy way, or adjusting his "yes-I-make-nerd-look-hot" glasses, or flipping through his Potions book—imagine how unbearably attractive he must have been! And he was! He was! How does anyone expect me to concentrate when _that_ is sitting in front of me! And then! AND THEN! Just turn to the other direction and there _SHE_ is, smiling like she does, her unbearably bushy head of freakishly smart hair radiating her victory. I wanted to leap across the room and shout, "Victory? I laugh in the face of your victory! You think you've won? YOU THINK YOU'VE WON? Win this, you stupid bitch!" and then break her face.

But I am not a ninja—I am Fleur Delacour, Potions Mistress. Come to think of it, I should have a book series, like _Sabrina, the Teenage Witch. _Except that I am _Fleur, the 20-year-old Virgin Potions Mistress. _Oh crap, Renée is probably going to remind me of that every day until I get laid. Perhaps should stop being so picky… no, that would make me slutty. Bah-humbug. Anyway! Potions!

So I jumped up like a cat rolling in gasoline on a hot, flammable summer afternoon (today is longwinded dumbass Southern-accented similes day), and stared at all the students, looking at me expectantly like rabies-infected dogs at the pound, looking out for their new owner. "Oh my shit." In his infinite helpfulness, the masterful Severus Snape left a lesson book propped up in the front of the room for me to teach from. If he had been there, I would have seized it and hurled it at him, screaming, "You stupid-ass idiot, you!" However, as said stupid-ass idiot was unavailable, I found myself with no options other than to go up to the book and try to teach a class.

"Um. So." Those were my first words as a Potions Mistress to my class. Um. So. I'm so freaking articulate when I want to be, aren't I? "Umm… can anyone tell me where you left off in the book?"

Of course Hermione Granger raised her hand—like we could expect anything else. She smiled at me, but it was a smile that was really just hate baring its teeth. "Page 274, _Clarus Animi_, the Clear-Headedness Potion." What I would give to have been clear-headed at that moment, but I dumbly went along with her and opened the book to page 274.

"All right, so: you will make the potion, observe its effects in an… essay, I suppose, which you will turn into me… tomorrow, I suppose, and… try not to mess it up, I suppose." Well, is there anything _else_ I'd like to suppose? In her almighty annoyingness, Hermione Granger had raised her hand again. "Yes, Ms. Granger?" I'm so proud of myself that I remembered to call her Ms. Granger and not Hermione!

"Won't you need to pass out the ingredients?"

"Aren't they already on your desk?" Severus evidently had done a nice job of setting them up with their materials before he jumped town to go live in Florida in a retirement community or something.

"Well, yes," she said sweetly—she scares me to death when she's sweet, "but, you see, we're missing an ingredient."

I scanned the list in the book—they had everything! Eye of newt, snake venom, phoenix tears… and then there was the one ingredient that was missing. "Oh," I said finally after staring at the book for over a minute, "I'll just pass out the lucky shamrocks then."

**1:30 p.m.** – The rest of the lesson wasn't too bad, though, aside from the titters of the amused students as they found the irony in the situation—all except Neville, who, for some reason, didn't get it. But aside from that, it was fine. Though Draco did say that his finger hurt and that he "wanted me to stir his cauldron," to which I replied with a kick in the shins. And though I could have sworn Parvati Patil coughed the word "whore" at me. And though Hermione continued to correct me throughout the entire lesson. And though I spent the whole time wondering if there was something wrong with me from the way Harry was staring at me. And _though_ Pansy Parkinson spilled a cauldron full of _Clarus Animi_ all over me, I'm sure on purpose—it was fine.

No, I'm totally serious.

**5:23 p.m.** – Ewww… I have to spend even less time contemplating my dumb life now that I have _responsibilities_. I think I am actually a legitimate Hogwarts teacher now, though this must upset The Staff very much. I wonder if there are meetings or something that I will have to attend in Snape's stead or something, or if I now have subscription to some sort of staff newsletter, or if there's a secret room filled with gold and diamond shoes that I will now have access too. Or if there's a staff sauna that Snape (obviously) never uses.

Oh, probably not.

**6:12 p.m.** – Renée is staring at me _again_. "So. Do you feel old yet?" Of course, she'd ask _me_ this and make me feel bad, even though _she_ is the older one.

"_No_… why?" I don't know why I always ask why, even when by all right I should just stuff my head under a pillow and scream "na-na-na-na-na, I can't hear you" at the top of my lungs.

"Well, honey, you're woman in her twenties—graduated school and everything—and you're making out with a teenager. If _I_ were you, I'd feel like his… _mother_ or something," she smiles, as if her saying this is akin to saying "Oh, but don't worry; the weather report says tomorrow it will rain chocolate!"

Well, now that she's mentioned it, I do feel sort of old. I'm twenty. I am no longer a teenager. I can no longer use that as an excuse for my angsty, hormonal, hedonistic lifestyle; I even feel ashamed about the books I read and the shows I watch now. Are those too "teen?" What about the magazines I read! The music I listen to! Am I somehow obligated to read Faulkner and listen to Beethoven now that I am twenty, and eat oat bran as I read the _Wall Street Journal?_ Am I now supposed to use words like "IRA" and "401k?" Am I supposed to know what those _mean?_ Do I have to start planning for my retirement and invest in the stock market! Oh my GOD, I'm TWENTY!

Admittedly, I am having a late reaction as my birthday was a week ago, but still!

Apparently, this was all completely visible on my face. "Oh, darling, don't doubt your music choices and stuff like that. You can still listen to your… My Chemical Underpants? Sell Out Boy?"

Why does everything have to be about underpants! "It's _My Chemical ROMANCE_ and _FALL _Out Boy—and they're brilliant and I refuse to stop listening to them. I will sneak down to Closet Muggle and get every one of their CDs if I want to!"

Then rushed out into hall to hide in faculty bathroom from insecurity-inducing sister.

**7:45 p.m.** – Oh god! Oh god! Am back in my room, rushing around in frantic insanity as Renée looks on, amused. Evidently she does not understand what is going around in my tossed and tumbled head. "Oh my God! Renée, _help_ me! I don't know what to _wear!_ I'm going to meet Harry in fifteen minutes!"

Renée glows, looking proud. "Good _going_, little sis!"

"No! Not like _that!_ It's ASP!" I exclaim, tugging on boots before realizing that it is May and I shouldn't wear knee-length slut boots, but instead kitten heels or stilettos or something strappy. Shouldn't I? What do you wear to get your famous one-lesson-stand back together with the girlfriend who is publicly humiliating you?

"ASP? You mean the Adult Sex Party?" I stared at her. I'm positive she didn't mean that seriously. I hope.

"No, I mean Alternative Self-Protection, you psycho," I replied, trying to find a skirt before realizing that skirts only get me in trouble, and perhaps I should wear something that isn't prone to flying up at the slightest disturbance. Finding clothes is the single most stressful thing in the world; men should try being fashion victims some time.

"I'm just saying: I hope you _use_ protection," said Renée, looking at her fingernails as if she was wondering whether she should tough out her French manicure for another week or redo her nails, perhaps in vamp red.

I gawked at her. "I am not going to have sex with him because I am not that desperate. And _he_ is not that desperate. And _we_ are not horny teenagers!"

"Oh, honey, you're definitely _not_ a teenager anymore."

_Stop trying to make me cry!_

**10:35 p.m.** – I should just stay in my room and never ever leave it, because every time I venture outside of it _something_ happens. First of all, I never should have offered to help Harry win back his brilliant, capable, vindictive girlfriend, because I don't _want_ him back with his brilliant, capable, vindictive girlfriend! Ugh, let me tell you about it…

So I strolled down into the dungeons, which are now apparently my domain since I am Fleur Delacour (!), Potions Mistress (!), and Harry was leaning against the wall, looking so Jude Law on magical, dark-lord-defeating steroids that I nearly broke my ankle in the stilettos I eventually chose. Why do I even wear stilettos? Just because they're pretty? Um… yes, actually. Never mind. So, he was standing there, looking thoughtful, painfully thoughtful, and then he saw me. "Oh, hey, Fleur."

Because to him I am not Fleur Delacour, I am Just Fleur, that girl he can trust. Or tongue. I could be Just Fleur, that girl he can tongue. Damn.

"Hey," I said, trying to make my ankle support itself. He looked so adorable, in his lanky sexy way; I have a thing for the tall, sinewy, I-play-Quidditch-type, but even he exceeds expectations. I am not going to purple prose about him, I swear… he's gorgeous he's gorgeous he's gorgeous! "Um, so I guess this is not a lesson, it's… applying ASP to an actual real-life situation, which is what we should be doing from now on. Yes, sure. Don't… you agree?"

"Um, yes." He stopped leaning and I stopped myself from screaming "No, Harry—you look so sexy when you lean!" He held up an official-looking piece of paper. "Well, I've been nominated for a Lifetime Achievement Award."

"But you're like seventeen." I probably should have said something in the way of "congratulations," but way to make me feel bad about being a twenty-year-old who can't hold a job and can't manage to be faithful to her boyfriend (don't think I don't kick myself over _that_ one) when here's a villain-vanquisher hottie who is winning a lifetime achievement award at seventeen years old. Not to mention the fact that now I am going to want to shag him more. He should go to Azkaban for conspiracy to make me keel over with lust.

"I know." _You know that you should go to Azkaban for conspiracy to make me keel over with lust?_ Oh! Right!

"I mean, you save the world as if you are Superman, but you are seventeen. That's crazy. You haven't lived your life yet."

"I know; it is insane. Actually, it's on Friday evening." _Gasp! A school night!_ "There's a ceremony and everything, it's pretty formal—very formal, and I need someone to escort me."

"You want me to be your escort?"

OF ALL THE THINGS I COULD HAVE SAID.

He grinned and blushed and I jammed my heel into my toe to punish myself for making him feel like he was asking me to be his prostitute or something. "Um, I was hoping you would go with me, yes."

"As your ASP-coach-thing, sure," I murmured. If I don't think of it as a date, then I won't go crazy. As fast. If I don't think of it as a date, then I won't go crazy as fast.

"Actually—"

_No, don't contradict me!_ "So, is it like a dinner-thing or is just the award ceremony?"

"It's a dinner, ceremony, after-party event," he said, and then suddenly he broke out into a ridiculously cute boyish grin. "They even specify that there will be an everlasting chocolate fountain."

"Then I will _definitely_ be there," I smiled. Oh God, picturing me and Harry making out in front of a chocolate fountain, underneath a chocolate rainbow. Stop that! Stop thinking about that!

He laughed. "But I have no idea where I'm going to get something to wear for this. It seems so serious, and I just have no idea—"

"There's a store! It's right around the corner from Diagon Alley; I can take you there. I have to get a dress anyway. We could stop there on Thursday or maybe on Friday afternoon—that way you won't miss any class or anything and you can finish your homework on Saturday—and then we can go—where is the ceremony again?"

"137 Warwick Place," he said quizzically, naming a place that I have certainly never heard of and pointing to the address as I leaned over his shoulder. He didn't seem to have any more idea of where it was than I did. "Let's just hope you don't mind getting Floo powder on your dress." Oh, if only he knew how little I'd mind being stuck in a fireplace with him.

"Only if you don't mind getting Floo powder on your tux," I replied.

"Tux?"

"Yes, Harry, we're going to dress you up like a penguin and parade you around London," I smiled. Oh, he's really going to be shaggable in a tux. I'll have to blindfold myself. "You may get a few odd looks here and there, but when you walk into the room, everyone will turn towards you and say, 'Damn that's one hot penguin.'"

And then we broke down laughing. Honestly, if Harry dressed up like a buzzard everyone would turn towards him and say "damn that's one hot buzzard." He's just one of those people. But unfortunately, my stilettos finally gave way and along with them my ankles and I fell straight into Harry. However, being a Seeker, he's quite adept at catching things, including falling Potions Mistresses. (Ewww, I hate being a Potions Mistress; I sound like I should tie my hair in a bun and purse my lips and wear mauve.) But then we started looking at each other, and that was a bad thing for us to be doing, because in Harry's case, looking leads to kissing, which leads to tabloids, which leads to CRAP. So, I found myself with no other choice than to say, "So, Harry, about you and Hermione." It didn't even need to be a complete sentence, because after I said her name he let go of me. Grrr, I hate reminding him.

"Right, right." He has such integrity; I wish I could corrupt him. "So, what do you think I should say to her? I'd be surprised if she'd even talk to me right now."

I thought for a moment. "Harry, lying is a horrible thing to do… but everybody does it. Not to compromise your moral standing or anything, but you are going to have to opt for some white lies and half-truths. Is that okay with you?"

"What sort of white lies and half-truths?" Damn integrity!

"Well, here's what I think you should say," I began, realizing that after some five years, my extensive knowledge of trashy romances is finally paying off. "First, you should call her name—go all out, let the pain ring through. And if that doesn't stop her, you're going to have to rush up to her and gently—not roughly, _gently_ take her arm. And you have to look her in the eye and say… well, first of all, you're going to have to tell her you think that I'm crazy and you have no idea what's the matter with me."

"But, Fleur, I don't think you're crazy… I think you're—"

"Never mind what you think I am!" I squealed, covering my ears. "Tell her that I'm some sort of crazy insane maniac who is all over you all the time, but that it is true that those were not your boxers. Tell her that you know how this whole incident has damaged your relationship, but that she means too much to you to let her go without a fight. And then say some stuff about how you'll fight for her, even if she turns you down, no matter how many times she turns you down. And then you've got to take her in your arms and… kiss her. Really, really fantastically. And if she still doesn't forgive you, then she is like an eighty-year-old woman in a teenager's body and there is no hope for her."

"Okay… could you run through that one more time?"

I sighed and thought over what I'd said. "Okay. I'll be Hermione and you'll be you. I'm walking away," I said, walking in the other direction in slow motion.

"Fleur, wait!"

"Right, but I keep walking away," I said, continuing to walk away.

And then, as planned, he gently—not roughly, gently took my arm, spun me around, looked me in the eye and said, "I'm not letting you go." And then he kissed me. Really, really fantastically. Too fantastically.

"Congratulations, 007," I sighed. "You're licensed to kill."

**Day One-Hundred-Twelve of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, May 10th, 2005 **

**Staring at the Ceiling**

**7:05 a.m.**

**7:05 a.m.** – Role-playing thing was horrible, bad idea. From now on, I will make him read and take notes all class long. Definitely. He will keep his eyes to his paper and I will keep my eyes to myself.

"Wash your hair, you tramp," says Renée, stumbling out of bed (knowing her she has a hangover somehow) blindly as she has a rhinestone-covered sleep-blindfold-thing that reads _Princess_ over her eyes. Some people get wake-up calls from jovial staff as they recline in the Ritz wearing fluffy bathrobes and I get this.

"You can't even _see_ my hair, so how can you even tell I have make-out hair?" I ask, wondering if my sister really just has ESP or if I'm really this transparent.

"Because you smell like him. Go hop in the shower."

DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMN.

**7:23 a.m.** – Renée is sitting primly (wow, Renée and primly are in the same sentence) on my bed, legs crossed, looking at me expectantly. "So, still couldn't keep your hands off him?" As if she's the Virgin Mary or something.

"It was not my fault! He kissed me! I was all set to not do anything and then he had to _actually _kiss me!"

"I still think you should jump his bones, sweetie," she smiled, "but then there is the cradle-robbing mommy factor," she continued, doing her best to look as if this was disconcerting her when really she was just happy that I am in a screwed-up non-relationship while she's getting married to a billionaire aerobics instructor who is "surprisingly limber."

"Don't call it the Mommy Factor!" Now I have to bang my head on the bathroom sink until that thought goes away.

"Oh, honey, it's just so… icky," she said happily.

"He's taking me to this grand ceremony thing so he can receive this lifetime achievement award, so I'm going to have to find a dress… what should I wear? Oh, why am I freaking out about this now, I have a whole three days! Oh crap, I have only three days…" I thought, shaking my head frantically.

"He's taking you out? Are you still making a statement?" asked Renée, perhaps actually slipping a note of concern into her voice. However, this may just be her getting worried that her sister will embarrass her. Yes, that's probably it.

"Sure, sure… I'll ask him tomorrow… er tonight, I'll ask him tonight. We can make a statement at the thingy we're going to, the… Award Ceremony, no problem. I mean, by tonight he'll probably be back together with… _her_, so it'll be nothing. Don't worry."

"I never said I was worrying," said Renée with a sniff.

Sure you weren't.

**12 NOON** – I'm going to close my eyes and not do anything until the ceremony thing. It's just occurred to me that there may be dancing, and media coverage, and I'm going to need a really great dress. And, according to Renée, not to eat for several days.

**6:00 p.m.** – And the same as usual:

Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 123. Perfect! PERFECT!

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: If he ever kisses me again, that will be it; all hell will break loose.

Cyber-boyfriend: Away. Thank God. I'd have to get rid of the Cyber-boyfriend section of my State of Affairs if he were actually here. Though am feeling really guilty… damn you, you sexy thing, Harry, damn you.

Pilates Minutes: 60. Renée the slave-driver is even meaner now that she realizes that an event is coming up.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 109.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 83. I may sort of understand the incident with the nanny now.

HP-thinking Minutes: 267; 145 of which was just reliving the kiss.

HG glares: 13—though they're not really glares of hatred, but glares of triumph now, and that's almost worse.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: 24. The boy won't give up!

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 12 to 5

Overall Day: Mmm… there aren't words.

**Day One-Hundred-Fifteen of Free Independence**

**Friday, May 13th, 2005 **

**On the Town**

**4:35 p.m.**

**4:35 p.m.** – Am standing in the single Irisé store in London (don't forget, _Irisé_ is the Wizard version of Michael Kors meets Dolce & Gabbana meets Chanel on acid) with Renée looking for a dress. "Something that doesn't make you look like a cow—that's important," says Renée, as if I haven't considered this.

"I've lost weight you know!" I say desperately.

"Whatever; even skinny people can look like cows. And something that isn't slutty is important too," she mentions, as she has never worn anything slutty in her life. Annoyingly, today she is wearing a white suit-skirt set that makes her look professional and fantastic. "After all, England already thinks you're a whore, and no one will believe your statement if you look like one!" She turns to the saleslady. "I'll take the black one in size eight, please."

"Four," I correct her.

"Six."

"FOUR!"

"Whatever. Get it in a four then." She turns around and surveys the dresses surrounding her. "You'll have to look sexy but virginal…"

"I _am_ virginal," I remind her.

"In the right dress, even virgins can look like hookers and even hookers can look like virgins, and in Irisé, anything is possible," she says. But I am no longer paying attention, for before my eyes is the perfect dress. It's like a slightly less formal ball gown in black and white, provocative yet elegant, and absolutely beautiful.

Renée realizes what I am gawking at. "Are you sure? I'm not sure it's the right balance of risqué and innocent, and I'm definitely not sure you're a size four…"

I look at her with pleading eyes. "Please, just let me try it on… it's perfect, I even have the heels to go with it!"

"Didn't you break those last night looking at Harry?"

"No, that was my ankle—I almost broke my _ankle_ last night looking at Harry." I take the dress off the rack. "I'll go try this on, and you'll see how absolutely perfect it is."

**5:17 p.m.** – I came back and twirled around in the dress some five times before Renée told me I was making her dizzy. "But isn't it lovely?" I persisted, jumping up and down in front of the mirror excitedly. "Isn't it just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen?"

"Fleur, may I say that you have never looked more like my sister, and for that I am proud of you. I might actually admit that we're related now."

I smiled. "Why thank you." I pulled out my Wizard Express (I have managed to get _one_ credit card back!) and danced happily over to the clerk. "If you can put this dress on my card, please," I said cheerily, planning on wearing the dress out of the store.

She took one look at the name on my card before she said in a completely dead voice. "I'm sorry, we don't take Wizard Express."

"But your sign says you take all wizard credit cards: Wizard Express, Cauldron-Card—it's listed right there," I protested.

"Oh," she said, angrily dropping my card into the card slot. Though I could have sworn the box squeaked out an "accepted!" she turned back to me with narrowed eyebrows and said, "I'm sorry, your card has been denied."

"But I put money on it yesterday! There's no way! Check it again!"

"No, I'm sorry, your card has been denied, so either you put the dress back or I'll have you thrown out of this store," she said, slapping my card back on the table. I just stared at her disbelievingly, glancing at Renée, wondering what the hell was going on. Evidently this was _not_ a Fairy-friendly store.

"But I have to have this dress! You can't—"

She glared at me. "But no! This isn't fair!" I continued on, looking at Renée, wide-eyed, as she just stared back at me. "Renée—"

"I didn't bring any money, Fleur, I'm sorry… I have like two galleons and that's it… I'm so sorry…" She took a look out the window. "However, I have a good feeling about this, don't worry."

And, amazingly, at that very moment, clad in a dazzling tuxedo, in walked Potter. Harry Potter. "Are you ready to go?" he asked. Really, when I made that 007 comment, I didn't expect him to really seem like James Bond in a tuxedo.

I tried to talk but my mouth had gone dry, so Renée spoke up in my stead, pointing an accusing finger at the salesclerk. "We would be, but apparently her card has been denied."

Harry walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders reassuringly. "It's okay; just let me pay for it." Renée and the clerk both raised their eyebrows as he said this. "I don't mind, really."

"You're kidding. I can't let you do that."

"I want to. Just tell me how much it costs."

"Umm… Harry…"

"Just tell me."

"200 galleons and 5 knuts."

Harry gave a low whistle. Admittedly, I have expensive tastes, but I never expected _him_ to have to pay for it. "I have a hundred with me, you don't have to pay for the whole thing—you don't even have to pay for it at all, actually."

"Here you go," Harry said, sliding 200 galleons and 5 knuts onto the table. Um, _wow? _Renée proceeded to stare at the money along with the clerk who gaped for a good thirty seconds before sweeping it off the table and into the register. "Come on," he said, taking my hand and leading me out of the store. "We have a party to attend."

"Bye…" I mouthed at Renée, giving her a look that hopefully conveyed my feelings of "CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?" She smiled and gave me a thumbs up, which clearly conveyed her feelings of "Use protection!" And the clerk looked pissed as hell.

**7:00 p.m.** – Well, to their credit, there is a chocolate fountain. A lovely gushing, nonstop river of chocolate. Because nobody in the world respects that I am on a diet. But whatever. So I was looking around, trying to look past the blinding flash of cameras, at the waiters walking around in their little suits with coattails, and I realized that—considering the fact that there was apparently a lot of media attention focused on this event—I was going to have to chloroform myself to keep my hands off of Harry.

"Um, I was thinking we could make a statement sometime during this ceremony," I whispered as we entered the room.

"What sort of statement?" Harry asked, leaning towards me but looking forward at the throng of reporters, notably Rita Skeeter who seemed absolutely hell-bent on dragging Harry into a corner and beating an interview out of him.

"Oh, just a statement that says we're not… you know…" I said, scanning the room for the table with our names on the place-card.

"Oh, no problem," Harry said. "Come on, let's sit down." We were seated in the very center of the room so that people could ogle us better. However, who really gives a crap about that, because we were seated next to the chocolate fountain.

**10:00 p.m.** – I will say nothing about the night but this. Things begun and things ended. We made the statement, there were many photos taken (and for once in a gorgeous dress!), and if you see the photo of the chocolate fountain in the _Daily Prophet_ and look very carefully, that girl making out with Harry Potter behind it _isn't me_.

I swear.

**Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Two of Free Independence**

**Friday, May 20th, 2005 **

**At Breakfast**

**6:12 a.m.**

**6:12 a.m.** – Since I am actually a Hogwarts teacher now, I am sitting up with the teachers feeling exalted and important. Dumbledore and McGonagall are whispering about something, probably something important and life-changing. They seem so serious and focused, as if the fate of the world is in their hands. They're whispering to Lupin now. And their whispering is growing more upset and agitated. "I tell you, I'm right!" demands Dumbledore. More furtive whispering.

Lupin finally turns to me. "Would you mind stopping by the History of Magic classroom and delivering this to Professor Binns?" he requested, pressing a folded piece of paper into my hand.

"What is this?"

"Doesn't matter. Just deliver it."

"Okay, no problem," I say.

**11:23 a.m.** – Well, I delivered it, and I must say it was the strangest experience I've ever had in my entire life. Quite seriously. I skipped down to the HOM room, and gave it to Binns, who was muttering to himself something about giants and elves and trying to make conversation with me. So anyway, I started to doze off because it was six o'clock in the morning on a Saturday and I really wouldn't have been up if Renée hadn't been up at five drinking in her nightgown. And then something Binns said jerked me awake. "Did you just say FIND THE VIRGIN?"

"Why? Would you like to play Find the Virgin?" asked Binns.

WHAT? I stared at him for a while, my eyes popping out of my head with shock. He's _dead_—what in the world would he be doing playing a game called Find the Virgin? What kind of game is called Find the Virgin?

"I only ask because it was a personal favorite of our former Potions teacher," Binns smiled jovially. "Actually, I'm supposed to invite you to join our club."

"CLUB?"

"Well, yes. You want in on the money, don't you?"

"MONEY?"

"Drop by Albus's office later, we'll let you in to The Room."

"THE ROOM?"

"It's worth your while, I promise you," he said.

I turned around and dashed out of the room. I mean, honestly! What the hell?

**12 NOON** – So I should be eating lunch. But instead have just left the secret staff game room after being passed a scorecard, a deck of cards, and a pencil. "Everyone, welcome Fleur Delacour to the club," smiled Dumbledore. I have this horrid feeling that they're going to blackmail me into doing horrid things. "Now, Fleur, you must understand how boring it can be being a teacher." _Yes_. "We just like to amuse ourselves."

AMUSE YOURSELVES?

"Find the Virgin is a Hogwarts tradition, you must understand," he said, moving in the direction of a humongous book. "These," he said, opening up the book, "are the names of every student in the school. It updates itself, of course. But throughout the year, when teaching becomes an awful bore, we take out our scorecards and our pencil and dedicate a few minutes to finding the virgin." He thought how mortified I felt was funny—you could tell.

"So, you just look at people and guess whether they're virgins or not?"

"Basically. It wasn't our idea—it's just tradition. Besides, it helps us keep track of the troublemakers," he smiled. "You have a lot of responsibility should you chose to join us; as you know, you are filling Severus Snape's place, but as you probably don't know, Severus was the Find the Virgin Champion three years running. He's already won 260 points thus far—all you need is a few hundred more to win."

"You're serious."

"Well, he's going to be upset if he doesn't win the Golden Condom again."

"I think I'll pass," I said, horrified.

"Suit yourself." He turned to the rest of the staff. "Okay, Minerva, I raise you 13 Sickles that Colin Creevey is—"

And I was gone before I could find out whether Colin Creevey was a virgin or not. Shudders.

**Day One-Hundred-Twenty-Five of Free Independence**

**Monday, May 23rd, 2005 **

**At Breakfast**

**6:43 a.m.**

**6:43 a.m.** – Sigh. I knew they'd blackmail me. They were going about their own weird business, arguing over Ron Weasley, and I was just focusing on my muffin. Dumbledore shook his head. "Two galleons that he's a straight virgin."

"Three that he's gay and he's _not_ a virgin," suggested McGonagall.

Suddenly Lupin piped up. "I bet eight that he's not quite straight and _half_ a virgin."

They all turned to look at me. I stared at them with incomprehension. "Go and ask Ronald Weasley whether he's a virgin or not," McGonagall demanded with a stern, serious look on her face.

"NO! I'm not even playing this stupid game! I don't want your stupid money!"

"Do it or you're fired."

"WHAAAAAAT?"

So I ended up strolling down to Ronald Weasley, pulling him aside and asking him, trying to keep a straight face: "Ron, would you describe yourself as a virgin? A straight virgin? Or a crooked virgin?"

"What's a crooked virgin? I'm almost straight if that's what you're asking!"

"Bisexual, but mostly gay—but that doesn't matter!" I said in a whisper. "Are you a virgin?"

"Well, I'm _half_ a virgin—"

"That's all I need to know!" I exclaimed and rushed back to the rest of the teachers, leaving Ronald Weasley looking as if he'd just been hit by a bus. I stood before the staff and said, like a jury foreman reading the verdict, "He's a not-quite-straight half-virgin," I said. "Lupin's right. And you are insane!"

They nodded their heads in agreement. "Pretty much," said Dumbledore.

**4:56 p.m.** – Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. I'm in trouble. Not underwear-trouble or creepy Find the Virgin blackmail trouble. Or even "Jacques left you a message with just the words _Mono, herpes, and syphilis_on it—do you know what he means by that?" trouble. Boyfriend trouble. Michael's back! And he wants me to move in with him!

And I've gone and said yes.

Well at least I don't have herpes.

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, I have to explain the Find the Virgin thing, because it is _the_ most bizarre thing I have ever actually written down. My friend Paige was talking to me about something and I thought she said "Find the Virgin," so I burst out with, "Find the Virgin! What is that? Some sort of sick freaky game show?" Later, when my friend Elizabeth and I were talking, one of us brought up, "So how exactly does one play find the Virgin? Do you just go around like hunting virgins, or do you have a scorecard so you can look at the people around you and write down, 'Virgin, virgin, virgin, not a virgin, virgin…'" And then, as it inevitably does, fanfiction came up. "You have to put that in your fanfiction!" Elizabeth exclaimed, and who was I to keep an inside joke (not so inside anymore) out of a humor fic? The rest is, as a true Find the Virgin aficionado say, sexual history. Please don't take me seriously. :)

I love you for your support, happy holidays, and I'm sorry I suck at updating. Sooo sorry. LOVE!

- Femme Teriyaki


	13. June: Far From the Madding Crowd

**June: (Not So) Far From the Madding Crowd**

* * *

**Day One-Thirty-Three of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, June 1st, 2005**

**Receiving Advice from the Reincarnation of All Evil (The Original)**

**10:18 AM**

**10:18 a.m. –** Renée is looking at me curiously. "But I don't understand. The way I was thinking about it, you wanted to shag Harry and Harry wanted to shag _you_, so why are you moving in with the boyfriend you are not shagging?"

"Because! He is my boyfriend and I owe it to him to be faithful and loving and committed to this relationship, which I am. I will not be tempted by every adorable guy that walks by—I am not that kind of person. It is my Half-Year's Resolution! I am rededicating myself to Michael and his wonderfulness. Even if I may have harbored feelings for Harry, they were mostly due to um… um… _sexual frustration_! And now Michael's here and I don't have to be… er… frustrated!"

"Okay… whatever you want, Fleur. But may I offer some advice?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. She didn't feel the need for me to reply to her non-question. "Don't move in with him. Move in next door to him—you still get to be close together, but you can think about what you're doing by continuing this relationship when you have feelings for somebody else. Isn't that the worse for both of you?" I was inclined to stare at her after this self-help-book-like profundity and we were greeted by silence until she spoke again. "Well. Let me help you get packed."

After which she realized that she wasn't being mean enough to me.

"Oh, and by the way, never wear that color skirt again. It looks like a dog crapped on it."

And thus, my daily dosage of Renée's infinite wicked wisdom was dispensed.

**12 NOON** – I'm packed, again. It feels like this year has been filled with packing and repacking—so much packing that I fear I will never want to travel again. I'm sitting on my suitcases, which very obligingly close when Renée packs them (because even my suitcases hate me), and wondering at what a situation I've found myself in. Yes, all's well on the Jacques front, and I have a job to come back to when summer ends, but so much time away has started me thinking in a direction that's leading far away from where I was in March. I haven't seen Michael in almost two months—first when I was away in Bordeaux and then when he went away to Egypt. Admittedly, he's still adorable, but… now there's Harry.

Of course, there was always Harry. There wasn't a time when Harry wasn't my object of Lustification in some way or another. But now it's as if it's realer than it was before—I'm thrown into his path all the time, and it's harder and harder to avoid him in the way that I could other people, and worse still we've gotten caught in this "underwear scandal" so that if we are seen in the same room together, people would be _looking_ for stension. (That's _sexual_ tension. Some people confuse _tension_ and _sexual_ _tension_, but they're completely different things. One involves wanting to smack each other, the other involves wanting to shag each other, and the two should never be confused.) Yes, Harry Potter is proving to be an _actual_ problem.

And here I thought I was just going to fantasize on him for a couple of days. Nothing ever turns out the way it's supposed to.

Damn, I've gone and depressed myself. I'll just wander down and see what Michael's doing. Perhaps more time spent with together would be beneficial for our relationship. (And then I could complete Half-Year's Resolution to get shagged.)

**1:45 p.m.** – Well, I was going to dash out of the way and go eat my feelings, but then Michael chanced upon me lurking in the hallway. He greeted me just in the way a boyfriend should, with a kiss and a hug and an expression of regret at our long estrangement. (I'm feeling so _very_ Jane Austen at the moment, so forgive me if I'm inclined to say _Mr. Darcy, Mr. Darcy _and cry at nothing at all.) It was the most upsetting hug anyone has ever given me! It was almost infuriating that he had dared to miss me, for I found I've barely thought of him except in cases of "Oh God, what if Michael finds out?" I've been an utterly disgraceful girlfriend, and I need to find some way of making amends—and I really need to purge my mind of Harry. If I can do that, I can return to a state of worrying over pleasing Michael instead of what the Boy Who Lived might think.

I swear, when I was more French, being with one person and adoring another was _so_ much easier. Damn Americanization!

**2:45 p.m.** – I am beginning to echo Renée's sentiments on the whole matter. Maybe I should move in next door to him. It would certainly be less claustrophobic that way; I'd have my space, and I could privately get over Harry. This would, of course, mean no subscriptions to any magazines or newspapers at all.

I should be out of here by tomorrow. Michael has an apartment in town in a nice complex with plenty of vacancies, so surely I could move in next door to him. This should be easy. I won't see Harry at all—it's summer. He'll probably be off gallivanting across Europe with Hermione (shudder), drinking lots and laughing at everything. He'll be happy. And I resolve to be as well.

**3:15 p.m.** – This is me being happy. You see? It's going very well.

**3:20 p.m.** – As a matter of fact, I am so happy and completely not nervous or frightened that I have managed to devour my entire stash of Nutri-grain bars in the space of five minutes. That is how happy and un-frazzled I am.

**4:00 p.m.** – And I can't possibly be unhappy if I've just eaten about a pound's worth of chocolate! Only happy people eat Nutri-grain bars and chocolate, and root about their room in search of vodka and vermouth! Only happy people!

**4:10 p.m.** – Only happy people drink an entire bottle of vodka in ten minutes! See how merry and delighted and completely un-unhappy I am? How could you possibly consider the slightest chance of my being scared or anxious or confused? It's simply impossible! I'm the happiest and luckiest girl alive! Things have turned out well enough and I'm happy! Happy!

**5:00 p.m.** – I'm miserable.

**5:23 p.m. **– _Pourquoi? _Why am I so _malheureux?_ Why can't I be _contente_ _avec le félicité du chocolat_ that I experienced in our _affaire de coeur _and move on _avec ma vie_—devote myself to my lovely _copain_? _Bizarre. Je parle plus de français que l'anglais quand je suis soûl. Où est l'alcool ? J'ai le besoin d'une boisson. _

**6:00 p.m.** – Why does everybody seem to think I am _drunk_, just because… I never noticed how unusually large the dots on the ceiling were before… WOW THEY JUST TURNED PURPLE!

**6:45 p.m.** – _Elle ne peux pas ordonner à moi de dormir! Je déteste la ! _

**7:12 p.m.** – _FLEUR, YOU ARE DRUNK OFF YOUR ASS. GO TO SLEEP. LOVE, RENEE._

**Day One-Thirty-Four of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, June 2nd, 2005**

**Having God Swing His Mighty Hammer Down Upon My Head**

**9:24 AM**

**9:24 a.m. –** Perhaps should not have had_ entire_ bottle of vodka. Perhaps should have restrained self to a glass or so instead of _entire bottle_. Would have stopped self from puking up a pound of chocolate and a stash of Nutri-grain bars. Now that secret stash of Nutri-grain bars is gone… what will keep me living?

WHY DOES RENÉE TALK SO LOUDLY? Doesn't she know that _GOD IS CRUSHING MY BRAIN AS SHE IS FREAKING SHOUTING IN MY EAR?_

**9:49 a.m.** – This is the worse hangover ever. Had horrible wonderful dream about Harry. Won't disclose the nature of such a dream for fear of diary rejecting such X-rated thoughts. But will say that it was an odd yet delightful mixture of fireplaces, ties, chocolate fountains, and—interestingly—Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

**11:12 a.m.** – "So who is Jonathan Rhys Meyers?" Renée asked, chucking a bag full of stuff at me as we're packing up my room, her to go back and plan her wedding with Mother and me to go live _next door_ to Michael (which I have to remind myself to tell him).

"You read my journal!"

Renée smiled. "No, darling—I was just wondering why you were screaming, 'Oh Jonathan! Oh Jonathan! Oh Jonathan Rhys Meyers!' in the middle of the night, that's all."

_Oh._ Um, mortifying. "He's this guy… from _Bend it Like Beckham _and _Velvet Goldmine _and _Vanity Fair_… but you wouldn't know what I'm talking about… he's, um, repulsively attractive… um…"

Renée only blinked confusedly at me. "Did you just describe him as being repulsively attractive?"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, eager to share the phenomenon that is JRM with poor, unwitting Renée. "It's extraordinary. He's _so_ unattractive. He has a bad haircut, his nose looks like it's been broken several times, and he's always _squinting_ for no reasons at all; he smirks when there's nothing to smirk out, and he pouts! And he _grinds his teeth in the most annoying fashion possible!_ And yet, you look at him and you think, 'Oh my God, I want to have his child!' Because he shouldn't be—but he is almost _maddeningly_ sexy! He is, at the same time, the ugliest creature I have ever seen and this pure _GOD_, because, Renée, he is gorgeous. And I am jealous of anyone who gets to make out with him in a cornfield."

"You are so weird," she says, and then wanders off to go crush and snort her breakfast.

**12 NOON – **It seems as if effects of Harryrexia are reversing themselves! Noooo! Evil scale—one-hundred-thirty! This is horrible, horrible, horrible… If Michael breaks up with me after realizing that living next-door to me is almost as annoying as living _with_ me, I am going to spend the rest of my life alone because of disgusting unattractiveness of thighs. Which resemble baby whales if you ask me. Maybe I should go on the South Beach Diet again—no, is too damn hard—plus, can cause ketosis, whatever that is—and I love carbs.

Okay. What would my self-help books say? Um… losing weight is not necessary for me to be a valuable contribution to society… I have a dream that one day people will be judged by the content of their character, not the size of their jeans… I am worthy of love, whether I eat chocolate or not…

No good! Stomach is viciously contradicting me with evidence of its pooching out like so! I have no abs! My thighs look like baby whales in themselves, as opposed to Renée, who has the thighs of a miniature pony! MY HIPS COULD TAKE OVER THE WORLD. I'm FAAAAAT.

Sigh. Maybe this is not my fault; maybe once I have my own apartment far away from Hogwarts, where they ladle pumpkin juice down your throat and ask you to find the virgin, I'll be able to focus on my health regimen. (**NTS** – Create "health regimen.")

**3:10 p.m.** – All right, have bags sitting faithfully next to me as I look upon the Great Hall for the last time (until next year). Tear. Michael is rushing up beside me, being infuriatingly good-looking… ooh, ties… Oh, right! Must tell him about "next door" arrangement!

**3:20 p.m.** – All right, went v. well considering how v. badly it could have gone. I was very much, "Um, Michael. I know you asked me to move in with you and I know I said yes, but I think that it was hasty decision-making on my part. I still want us to be together, of course, but maybe it would be better if I just… lived… next door?"

Had horrible slightly-crestfallen-boy thing going on; was not fair to anyone, especially passers-by who might have swooned. "Oh, all right," he says, making it painfully evident that this is not exactly what he wanted or expected. I wanted to grab him by his tie and snog him beyond reason, but realized would not help situation, except that he might think I was crazy. Then, I realized I am crazy, so I grabbed him by his tie and snogged him beyond reason.

"I just want to take it slow, that's all," I said. But not so slow that we don't have sex. Or so slow that we start going backwards and begin to just hold hands. Or that I suddenly have "cooties" and am "icky."

He gave me this look, this "if I lean in close, I can see your soul" look. And then, he nodded and said, "Okay." Damn you American boys and your damn soul-searching looks. And damn your sexy ties.

**5:04 p.m.** – Oh my. He does have a nice apartment/flat/building-thing. I mean, it's great. I begin to wonder if he's gay, because no man decorates like this. It's very together. And with very soft carpeting… BUT I DON'T LIVE HERE. I'm going to go remind myself of that and peek in next door. That's right… dragging my suitcase along to the _next door_ apartments now…

**8:23 p.m.** Am in bed in Spartan new apartment, drinking. Oh, shut up, stop judging me. Was carting boxes back and forth from hallway into room; eventually had dumped truckload's worth of stuff into apartment (mostly in one corner though, and all things like scented candles and little mini-Foe-Glasses that I don't think work anymore) and was carrying empty box downstairs to dispose of and possibly grab soda or similar. Got to top of stairs, happy and sprightly because a) boyfriend and I are on marvelous terms as of late, and no chance of him chucking me re: any affairs I may or may not have had b) have realized apartment (mine, not boyfriend's) has lovely view out window and c) have started "new chapter in life" to paraphrase Mum. But then! Was humming one of Fall Out Boy's songs with distressingly long titles when a certain sight caused me to drop cardboard box down stairs in shock.

"God, Fleur," said sight smiled. "First you steal my underwear and then you try and murder me with a cardboard box. Lord Voldemort has nothing on you, I assure you."

So spoke Harry Potter.

**9:00 p.m.** – Am not sure how this has happened (still in bed, drinking). Yes, I realize this is a very popular nice apartment complex! Yes, I realize that there was a very attractive ad in the papers just a few weeks ago on it! I realize multiple vacancies (due to deaths and heart attacks and random vanishing, etc.) would make this place a likely target for those newly out of the whole school thing, as would the reasonable rent! But HARRY! HARRY!

I am being very calm, I think. Relatively, considering normal state of calm. Yes. V. calm.

AAAAAH! HARRY! HARRY! (Feel like might as well be yelling, "STELLA! STELLA!")

Humph. Life is ruined.

**9:30 p.m.** – Well, is bloody good thing never had life in the first place.

**9:45 p.m.** – Half Year's Resolution (as is June) _never get life_. Will only wreck it. I shall proceed with losing my life immediately… er… in manner of reverse "get a life" syndrome.

**10:00 p.m.** – Okay. Have reached reasonable level of calm (not to insinuate that I wasn't calm before, but this version involves less capitals and exclamation points). So what if Harry and all his friends have moved in to the apartment complex that I happen to be living in? So what if Ron and Harry and… _HER_ will be sharing my living space? I will be calm and composed, in manner of Princess Di. Will not, however, marry big-eared unattractive husband who should not be so childishly "prince" anymore, but rather "king" or "duke" or similar—would rather be a "duke" than a "prince" at his age… beside point! I am calm and composed and I will walk by them and be… damn, what's that word… _POISED!_

I am poised. You couldn't be more poised than me. I am like the Poise Queen, or Miss Poise, or Empress Poise. I am so poised that I should have the very word copyrighted.

Damnation, wish I were poised.

**Day One-Thirty-Five of Free Independence**

**Thursday, June 3rd, 2005**

**Trying to Look Seductive While Eating Breakfast**

**11:30 AM**

**11:30 a.m. –** So, have popped over to Michael's and am realizing that this arrangement will be just like living together, except we won't be sleeping within the same walls! (Perhaps decreases chance of fulfilling resolution to get shagged; however, am sure sleepovers can be arranged.) He is making me breakfast even though he wonders at how one can wake up at 11:30 on a Thursday and eat breakfast. Well, that is just the wonder that is me. Plus, I stayed up far too late last night memorizing definition of word _poised_ with dictionary and bottle of sherry in hand, only to wake up this morning and not remember it at all.

So, we are making lovely conversation. He is talking about Egypt and describing the breathtaking scenery and seeing the pyramids and conversing with house elves over important issues. Interject based on acquaintance with one such house elf, forward-thinking, coffee-offering Dobby from Hogwarts. Love that little elf, even when he walks around carting chocolate cake though I am on a diet (looks can be deceiving—I swear I am). Suddenly, he is very much: "So, how did ASP go while I was away?"

Horrid question! HOOORRID! Was drinking orange juice with breakfast! SPAT IT BACK OUT AGAIN! Looked at Michael, red eyes wide in gaping horror, little bits of orange juice dripping from my chin! "Excuse me?"

"How'd ASP go while I was away?"

Panic, panic! "Oh!" I say cheerily. "Great lessons! Harry took the ASPIRE! I'll just _pop over_ and see how his results were!"

**12 NOON **– Thus bolted out of apartment to find hallway was frightfully cold, as was only wearing oversized men's Oxford shirt in attempt to appear sexy and seductive for morning pop-over to eat breakfast with hot lover in manner of trashy Pride-and-Prejudice/Sex Romp crossover. But kept running down halls and found door 16, which is Harry's door, which he told me after Cardboard Box Massacre. And insanely burst through door, broad smile on and not much else to find Harry and HER on the sofa! Hermione just looked at me as if she was thinking, "Horrid slut—I bet she _planned _to come over here like that!" And Harry was looking at me like, if am not mistaken, "Whose shirt is that? I wish she would take it off." Which was very unsettling. DID NOT TAKE OFF SHIRT. Might have, had Hermione not been there. Perhaps am horrid slut?

No, too many trashy novels.

Anyway. "How'd your exam go?" I twittered, wishing I'd worn shoes, then realizing wearing shoes and then forgetting pants seems stranger than not wearing clothing for entire lower half of body in the first place.

Harry was examining shirt. "Oh! Um… flying colors. The examiner said I should look forward to a career in getting kidnapped and weaseling my way out of it with a wink and a well-placed 'Have you lost weight?'"

Laughed, then realized Hermione was glaring a hole in my flesh and stopped. "Um—well, that's all I wanted to ask," I said. Now realize that I must have sounded like I had just made up ASPIRE question as a reason to come over, making Hermione hate me more. _Right_, because she totally didn't hate me enough before.

So then I dashed out of the doorway and back over to 24, Michael's apartment. "He passed with… flying colors!" I said, waving arms wildly in attempt to hide nervousness. All attempts are failures, I now realize.

"Aren't you cold?" asked Michael, gesturing vaguely at too-big shirt. Then I suddenly realized that I must look horrible with half of thighs (also known as killer whales) in view, plus cellulite, and no make-up on and demi-hangover. "_Aren't you cold?"_ probably meant: _you look like hell_.

"Oh, cold? Me?" _No, why should I be cold? I'm only practically naked!_ "Well, I suppose I'm a little bit cold."

Turned out to be skillful come-on. He was very much "here's some tea" and then I was very much "thank you kindly" and then we were very much: snuggle, kiss, snuggle. Snuggling is very nice in overlarge Oxford shirts—I highly recommend it.

**3:00 p.m.** – Am back in own apartment. Am still pure (okay, not pure) virginal being, but considerably more snuggled. I suppose I should write a letter to Jacques, informing him of current situation and new Floo address so that I can bother him in emergencies and he can know where to bother back. Will not include account of snuggling and tea in letter, though am tempted. Is sort of thing one would write to a female friend about, but am in short supply of those at present time—I will instead console myself in thinking about it constantly. Hmmm… snuggle-afterglow.

**4:00 p.m.** – I think Michael should be a bit more perturbed about the fact that _students_ are living down the hall. I am. Then again, I have a very good reason to be perturbed at certain students are living in the general area, but one would think that being a teacher and living around students during the summer would be like working as a lumberjack and spending all summer in the forest. I suppose he intends to just ignore them. I think I shall adopt this attitude.

**5:00 p.m.** – V. tempted to dash over to Harry's again. Have already changed out of Oxford shirt, but still. But am resisting the overpowering temptation by sitting in my apartment, which is still not really set up yet, and reading _Lord of the Necklaces_, an enchanting fantasy tale involving elves and curious creatures called Moppets that have hairy hands and one such Moppet, named Freud-O who has come into possession of a necklace that is pure evil. It's been very good so far, except for the one paragraph in which Freud-O says, "I was born completely bald, with hair only on my fingers! It's my one single vanity… I brush them three-hundred strokes a day!" I am now reading a detailed account of how the Moppet is preparing for tea. It's all very riveting, but I do wish the tea-set could talk. It would make things a bit more interesting.

**6:00 p.m.** – Still making tea.

**7:00 p.m.** – _Still _making tea.

**8:00 p.m.** – For God's _sakes_, the damn Moppet has been making tea for the past _200 PAGES_, does this person have nothing better to do than describe how imaginary people eat and drink!

**9:00 p.m.** – Okay, a sexy and feminine man with a long blonde mane is fighting with his bow and arrow now, so I forgive the author for his thing with the tea sets. Only problem is, from picture on cover, I keep expecting the sexy blonde man to stomp his feet and whinny.

Hm. Wish sexy and feminine blonde-horse-elf-man would shag the mysterious dark fallen king one who never bathes. Perhaps the description of their break to eat lunch would be more tolerable if two very sexy people were slashing it up on the picnic table.

GAAAAAAAAH! They're making _TEA_ again!

Will never finish this book. Will go watch play instead. Maybe in the play the tea-sets will talk and give commentary on the elf and the king slashing it up on the picnic table.

**Day One-Thirty-Six of Free Independence**

**Friday, June 4th, 2005**

**Preparing to go Exercise (v. good) **

**8:30 AM**

**8:30 a.m. –** Look! I have woken up earlier than usual and am going to go exercise and thus promote a healthier lifestyle! (Or at least I can trot around in adorable new exercise outfit for a few hours and come back and eat chocolate as reward for all the exercise I've been doing. Sure.) Am going to jog out the door now and take to the streets, running my little French heart out, mm-hm.

**9:45 a.m.** – V. unsettling. Bumped into _horrid blonde oddity _that has no long blond mane akin to sexy fantasy elf creatures; I would have thought Draco was too high and mighty to get an apartment of his own rather than sticking with his family in his manor-thing, but perhaps has become disowned because of some un-evil behavior. Would investigate if cared, but do not care, so will not investigate. Anyway, bumped into Draco, who gave me both a wink and a once-over (which was really more like a twice-over) before launching into a monologue in typical Draco fashion.

"Ah, couldn't keep your hands away from me, could you? Even got into the same building as me—I'm quite impressed," he said, somewhere between _ah, my love kitten has followed me home_ and_ let's take this party somewhere more private, Love-Love Kitty._ I don't appreciate that Draco's pet name for me is now Love Kitty.

"Draco, I didn't follow you here. This is just an unfortunate coincidence," I maintained as he gave me a look that makes some (extremely perverted) Slytherin girls melt.

"Come on, Fleur. Let's not deny it any longer—you want me. And for a little while," he said with a dirty smile, "I've been entertaining thoughts about you. I think it would be a crime against nature to hold back this passion any longer," he said, flying at me.

Had to duck then rush to side of him to escape overeager mouth of Draco Malfoy. Was afraid he would start purring at me, saying "here, Love Kitty—here, Love Kitty" in manner of nightmares.

"Draco—this is sexual harassment!" Was unable to even get out of the front of the apartment complex, so was dashing around our hall trying to get Draco to stop diving for me, which is annoyingly difficult since he has been training really hard for Quidditch. "And don't call me Love Kitty!"

Of course. Of course Harry opened the door just as Draco pinned me to the wall and I screamed "Don't call me Love Kitty!" Because that's just the way things work in my life.

"What the hell?" And then Harry was staring at me and then at Draco and then at me again, but not in a shirt-analyzing manner, which was rather thrilling if I do admit, but rather in an disquieting conjecture-making sort of way. And then after a few seconds of pensive looking, he marched out of his doorway, tore Draco away from me, and punched him in the nose, bless his sexy heart. "Fleur, are you all right?"

"I will be," I said resolutely. I then proceeded to kick Draco in the groin several times. "Now I'm fine."

Have now realized that kicking Draco is solution to everything; if every person in the world could just step up and give the boy a swift kick, there would be no unhappiness, for it is the greatest satisfaction. Harry looked on as if he were trying to suppress his amusement.

And then he grinned and invited me inside for tea.

**12 NOON – **I don't think you're supposed to have tea at ten o'clock in the morning (though how would I know, since I'm not usually awake at ten o'clock in the morning over the holidays?), but it was quite nice, especially as after-party to having participated in a joint flogging of Draco Malfoy. I have a feeling the Malfoy winks will be lessening considerably from now on. But anyhow, sat there and drank tea (which is all anyone ever _does_, apparently) and was relieved to find that Harry does not have an ornate 200-page tea ritual to complete before he eats his _seventh breakfast of the day_, like some people do. But then Hermione came back from buying a book at Flourish and Blotts and gave us a look as if to say, "Harry, how could you do this to me and be seen with this cheap pick-up after you said those lovely things and promised that there was nothing going on between you!" similar to soap opera looks that say everything, and very expressively with exclamation marks. So I smiled as best I could and thanked Harry for tea and scampered back to my own apartment, and realized that staying away was v. hard and if I can manage it, I will deserve some sort of prize.

**5:00 p.m.** – Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 125, which is where I always end up anyway, though it would be nice if could lose six or so pounds and be under one-twenty so could dance around and wear the skinny badge some diet programs send you in the mail if you do extra well.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Hm. Oxford shirts. That's all I'm saying.

Cyber-boyfriend: Ditto.

Pilates Minutes: None. Well… snuggling was form of Pilates, I dare say.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 120. Imagined him as Blonde-Elf-Boy in _Lord of the Necklaces_; was quite riveting—he's so pretty as a blonde, don't you think? He is the prettiest man I have ever seen! Have you ever noticed how he turns to one side and he's sexy, then he comes into the light and turns again and he is _frigging beautiful?_

Jude-thinking Minutes: 74. Imagined him as dark, fallen-King boy in _Lord of the Necklaces. _Then nearly passed out imaging Orlie and Jude slashing it up on a picnic table.

JRM-thinking Minutes: 145. It's not a picnic table if he's not on it.

HP-thinking Minutes: 300. New high since underwear scandal… spotting signs of a relapse… bad news…

HG glares: 2 because I promptly ran away before she hurled her book at me both times.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: WINKS? I am no longer worried about winks, my friends; it's the mouth that has a life of its own that I am worried about!

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 182 to 59

Overall Day: V. stressful, but there was tea. I suppose five points back for tea.

**Day One-Forty-Two of Free Independence**

**Thursday, June 10th, 2005**

**Trying to Look Seductive While Eating Breakfast**

**10:10 AM**

**10:10 a.m. –** Am lying in bed, afraid to pop over to Michael's as has become comforting custom, because I am still wrestling with dilemma of foolproof stay away from Harry plan.

_Ideas for Foolproof Stay-Away-From-Harry Plans_

1) Have constant sex with Michael; will be too busy shagging furiously in flat four doors down from Harry to have tea with Harry. However, is not foolproof, as: How much can one shag before it just becomes boring and boyfriend begins to wonder if after years of pent-up virginity one has transformed into nymphomaniac?

2) Be so obnoxious, annoying, etc. that Hermione files restraining order against me, and I won't be legally able to see him anymore! However: flats are too close together and would have to move all over again, plus would upset boyfriend.

3) Go on campaign of totally repulsing him. Constant nasty food like Brussels sprouts stuck in teeth, foul onion breath, etc. Would never want to kiss me or be in the general vicinity with me ever again. However: would undoubtedly repulse boyfriend as well.

This is not going very well.

**2:05 p.m. **– Trying to keep reading _Lord of the Necklaces_, but there's some sort of waterfall or something… I don't know, I'm not really paying attention to what's happening as every other line is "my sweetie, my sweetie" over necklace, anyhow. My mind keeps wandering back to Harry. Why is he always there? AROUND? Is someone trying to tell me something about dear, sexy Harry that I am not getting? _Grrr…_ doesn't matter, as he and I are both taken. Admittedly, love being taken my Michael, who is sweet and funny and adorable and makes good tea and has no objection to Oxford shirts whatsoever, but I still wonder exactly how Harry would like Oxford shirt snuggling.

Oh God. What have I done? It's the middle of the afternoon, for God's sake! And now I've brought on images of Harry and I Oxford-snuggling… _damn it_. Would be bloody lovely.

Would Oxford-snuggle before the view of the city until the sun goes down and then I would make toast and he would make tea and we would wait until the stars came out. Oh, it's ruddy lovely—I can't stand it, not at all! Will have to go drown self in bottle of sherry again. I mean, it's after noon, right? There's nothing wrong with drinking after noon!

**6:12 p.m.** – Remind me not to drink after noon. As a matter of fact, I've got a new Half Year's Resolution: Shall stop drinking so much as solution to every problem, or else I'm going to end up with the livers of Grandmère Jeanette and Grandpère Gustav, which would be _très _distressful.

_Half-Year's Resolutions_

1) Be honest, caring, loving girlfriend to Michael.

2) Stop with the Harry fantasizing and strange sexually charged encounters. Bad for psychological state. Mm-hm.

3) Find good self-help books that don't corrupt and ruin mind into believing things on rubber bands (though whole rubber band thing may be right, because I pulled really far away from Draco and he sure came snapping back). Find self-esteem improving book and learn to be independent and not to need boyfriend to complete me, at same time maintaining said boyfriend in non-hypocritical manner.

4) Mend fences with Hermione—otherwise, push her off one.

5) Get lovely career involving travel and good pay and preferably not teenage boys or Harry. Or Quidditch players. Or people who frequently wear ties or silk boxers.

6) Be less sex obsessed.

7) Lose five pounds, look like I've lost five pounds, stop wanting to lose five pounds, or have everyone tell me I don't _need_ to lose five pounds.

8) Stop obsessing over people who aren't obsessing over me and obsessing over how I can make them obsess over me in a reciprocal obsessive manner.

9) Be lovely friend to Jacques who has been wonderful and kind though I have not always deserved it for some like twelve years or so; plus, buy him something nice for Christmas (not soap, or really feminine Vanilla Sugar Bodywash, as that will be for me).

10) Drink less, as is not solution to all of problems, rather the above 9 items are. Everybody knows the world would be filled with bunnies and rainbows if I could lose five pounds.

**7:00 p.m.** – Is very strange, I think, that I have left Hogwarts and it is in the very middle of the summer holidays and yet somehow, to think of Mr. Hardy, I'm no farther from the madding crowd.

* * *

**A/N: **Ha-ha! Teriyaki Triumphant! I have mastered the computer! The internet cannot beat me! I'm v. sorry, but my internet's been down, though I am making progress at working faster via middle of the night writing sprees. Hope you enjoyed it—one-hundred-fifty reviews was the bestest birthday present ever—so wonderful I am using five-year old grammar. Can I give you a prize? As reviewers? If you could get a prize for being such lovely reviewers, what would said prize be? (Bearing in mind that I don't know how to pack Orlando Bloom in a box and mail him to anyone.) Anyway, think on it so I can have a contest with lovely prizes for some ten winners or something… mmm… Also, don't hate me because I mock everything… it's just what I do…

All right. That's it! Love you!

REVIEW!

—Femme Teriyaki


	14. Dangerous Plans

**Day One-Forty-Three of Free Independence**

**Friday, June 18th, 2005**

**Locking the Liquor Cabinet**

**9:00 AM**

**9:00 a.m. –** Mm-hm. I'm locking the liquor cabinet. No drinking. Cold turkey. No Harry—also cold turkey. I am successful, good, valuable human being who does not need a teenage lover or a Cosmo to make me happy.

Though I do love the delightful pink color.

**11:12 a.m.**

Numbers:

Looked out of door to see if Harry's there: twice.

Walked by Harry's place, pressed ear to door, and sighed when realizing he isn't there: 8 times.

Briefly imagined Harry snogging self: 25 times.

Saw Hermione, imagined pushing her off a fence, hands twitched with delightful sensation that would come with said pushing and had to run back into apartment to stop self from throwing her off a fence: 6 times.

Wanted to go on a recon mission and discover just how close Harry and said girlfriend on: well, all day.

Attempted, aborted recon missions: 17 times.

Number of times floo'd Jacques only to find he isn't there, but probably gallivanting in wonderland with Janine: 20 times.

Times wondered if will die alone, then remembered boyfriend: 31 times.

Times wondered why I'm attractive enough to kiss but not attractive enough to leave girlfriends for: 149 times.

Number of Sadness-Induced Binges of Chocolate Eating: 5.

Number of Pages Completed in _Lord of the Necklaces: _2. I saw the word _tea_ and threw the book across the room—Halcius Pottotius is more interesting.

**2:00 p.m.** – Popped over to Michael's, but he wasn't there—he was off buying groceries or something sensible. (Isn't that ridiculous? I have a _sensible_ boyfriend!) So I was wandering around the apartment, when I decided to leave him a little note.

_Michael,_

_It's Fleur. I'm thinking we should go out on the town tonight and celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of the summer holidays. Drop by if you agree. _

_XOXOXO_

_Fleur_

See? If I go on a date with my boyfriend, then I am obviously not thinking about Harry at all—if I go on a date with my boyfriend, Harry is the farthest thing from my mind. I will just have to throw myself head-on into my relationship with Michael, that's all. Very simple, so simple that it will be so wonderfully… _difficult_. Damn it. Oh well.

I got in a new order of trashy books to read, including a new series of pure, shallow, vapid trashiness named _Wealthy Witch_, which features a host of rich, attractive, shallow people who spend their lives in designer clothes and chronicles their scandalous activities. But one witch somehow knows all the goings-on in London (where the story takes place), including what's going on between all the main characters, something she keeps the world privy to through private owl posts. _C'est vraiment scandaleux. _Anyway, it's all beginning with some impossibly lovely girl returning to her old school after transferring to some other stupid magic school, much to the chagrin of her old best friend. I'm only two pages in, but it's gratuitously name-dropped eighteen times. I have a feeling this is going to be like reading a magazine without the pictures.

Ooh, expensive shoes!

Ooh, expensive dresses!

Restaurant name-dropping! CELEBRITY NAME-DROPPING! Wow, someone's obviously obsessed with the Irisé summer collection…

**3:00 p.m.** – You know—it's true. The new Jean Cavell line exclusively for witches of tall stature is not as enrapturing as advertising made it out to be; these vapid, shallow, trashy-type books make very valid points. If only I didn't have to hide them under the bed every time I hear footsteps in the hall, for fear someone would catch me reading them. It's only the fact that they just scream "THIS IS WHERE THE DISAFFECTED YOUTH GETS ALL OF ITS BAD IDEAS FROM!" Otherwise, I'd proudly (okay, not proudly, considering the semi-pornographic bikini pictures on cover, indicating sexiness within on covers) read these in parks and in lobbies across the country. As it is, however, I must content myself to reading _Catcher in the Rye_ and pretending I know what the hell it's about.

**4:00 p.m.** – Jacques!

"I can't believe you don't know what _Catcher in the Rye_ is about," he's saying. Okay. How is it that Jacques has read every book in the wizarding world and in the Muggle world, cross continentally? And how is it that he has managed to actually understand them? Bastard. "It's a classic coming-of-age story; Salinger's masterpiece in my opinion, perhaps better than Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_, despite the Pulitzer Prize she won for it—"

Name-dropper.

You don't freaking floo someone in the middle of the day, and _then_, when the person tries to strike up a lovely conversation about things you both like (Oxford commas, books with shiny covers, pickles, etc.) tell them about their literary ignorance w/ shameless name-dropping. Evil Harper Lee-ing and Salinger-ing and Steinbeck-ing and Keats-ing. Just because he knows I have no idea who Truman Capote is does not mean he has the right to name drop him! Or _worse!_ Name DANGLE him, because he knows I do not know who that is and must nod ignorantly! He's a _name dangler!_

"It's about the search for self, chasing identity, striking out on one's own, the strange and lost period between adolescence and adulthood—good God, Fleur, pretend like you're listening, why don't you?"

"Just because my belly-button lint is more interesting than your literary critique of a book I will never understand, does not mean I'm not pretending like I'm listening."

"You're a crappy pretender," Jacques says, shaking his head.

"Oh, why thank you. I'm trying to be a more _real _person," I admitted, carefully kicking _Wealthy Witch_, Book Two: _You Must Be Aware That You Are Harboring Affection for Me_ under the bed. Twenty more words and it would be as long as an Alternative Rock song title. "You know, less shallow—more in touch with the importance of today's world."

"What is that?"

"WHAAAAT?" I ask, quizzically, reaching for Book Three with my toe. With one more nudge, I'm sure I can discreetly place it next to Book Two underneath the bed, and save contemplating how small the font has to be to put _The Scope of Everything I Desire Encompasses Everything There Is_ on a book cover for later.

"The book you just kicked under the bed. Is that—?" Oh crap, he's looking shocked. "Oh no. Ohhh no. Not a _Wealthy Witch_ book, Fleur, noooo…"

"WHAT? They're addictive! It's okay to live vicariously through things sometimes, isn't it? Is it my fault that I personally think it would be kind of cool to be living in London, being beautiful, and having lovely romantic adventures with my boyfriend and having perhaps a scandalously sexy tryst with the boy down the hall?"

"Fleur, you freak."

"What?" I have a feeling I'm going to spend my entire life asking Jacques that very question.

"That IS your LIFE," Jacques clarifies. He must be referring to the London, tryst with boy down the hall type thing, which is not as fun as the books make it seem like it would be—especially with tiring aspects of aborted recon missions.

"Sure—minus the scandal, sex, and beauty."

"I sometimes want to walk up to your head and see if anybody's home."

"You're very random."

"Oh, trust me, I'm not," he replies. His eyes dart a bit, and I assume that he is scanning the room. "Oh God, Fleur… please promise me that underneath your bed is _not_ the third worst book ever written: _For the Sole Reason that that's My Value._"

"That and Book Five—_I Adore It in That Particular Fashion_," I replied, smiling weakly.

"You have the entire collection, don't you?" he asks, eyes wide. Jacques is afraid of anything with an IQ of less than 120, which makes me wonder sometimes why he ever hangs out with me, as I have the most erratic IQ known to man—for example, at the time of Lucky Shamrocks incident, my IQ was at about 27. These books must seem to be the inauguration of the death of human intelligence. Sigh. That's what you get when you're brilliant. "Fleur? Do you have the _entire_ collection?"

"_You Exist as the Singular Being That I Covet; There Isn't Anyone Who Can Achieve It in a Superior Fashion; _and _Like a Rock Band, We'll Fall Apart Eventually. _Yes, I have all eight books—please don't kill me. I haven't read _all_ of them yet…"

"You scare the crap out of me, you really do," Jacques says. "I don't even understand it. When I'm around you, I feel like I'm living in the twilight zone."

"Doo-dee-doo-doo, doo-dee-doo-doo…"

"I'm going to have nightmares, and I'm going to blame you…"

"Doo-dee-doo-doo, doo-dee-doo, doo…"

"Well, if you're going to be like that, I'm going to send you pictures of Mick Jagger in the mail and see how you like it. And mimes."

"NO!" Okay, everyone is creeped out by the Twilight Zone. It is completely evil for Jacques to play on my irrational fear of mimes and Mick Jagger. I sometimes have nightmares about his old, crinkly self jumping out of a dark alley with a hacksaw screaming "I'm mime _who_ wants to _maim_ you" to the tune of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." Though, as Jacques points out, this dream is totally illogical, since if Mick Jagger really were a mime, he would be violently miming maiming me instead of actually speaking. Right, because I'm totally thinking about the logic of my dreams as THE OLDEST MAN ALIVE IS TRYING TO KILL ME. "Jacques, that was mean and evil. I am shivering! Look at me! The thought of Mick Jagger has chilled me to the bone—my apartment is no longer safe! _What if that nut job breaks into my apartment!_"

"Fleur, I want you to stop and think," Jacques says slowly. "Do you really think that Mick Jagger would really have an interest in breaking into your apartment?"

"You never know what a skinny rock star like him might do next!" I proclaim. It's the skinny ones you have to watch out for—I'm thinking of going on a _feed the rock stars_ campaign. I will start with feeding that drummer from Velvet Revolver. Then I will run away as fast as I can.

"What is it with you and rock stars?"

"Blame Jules Casablancas," I tell him. Seriously. Jules Casablancas is my life—if I'd never gone to America, I might have tragically continued living without the knowledge of his beloved existence. His voice is like a Calvin Klein underwear model. His face is not. Who cares? I had this intense dream about him singing _Alone, Together_ to me while wearing a red silk cravat in the manner of Fabio, once—I could have sworn it was real, but Jacques says there is no way a rock star would be wearing a silk cravat.

"You're crazy. Really crazy. And I'm telling you, there is no logical reason Jules Casablancas would be wearing a silk cravat." Jacques is now buzzing around in his apartment, tidying things up in the OCD way that he does. I sometimes want to throw a duster at him, but I (usually) refrain.

"What if his grandmother gave it to him? And then she found out he was going to be on TV, and she was all, 'Julie, are you going to wear the cravat I gave you last Christmas?' And then, he couldn't say no, as he has not only the voice but the heart of a Calvin Klein underwear model? And so, after some protesting of, 'Nana, stop calling me Julie, I know you wanted a granddaughter, but this is going too far—Nana, hang up the damn phone, will you?—I have to go onstage in like thirty minutes!' he finally gave in and started looking for the cravat. But then, he couldn't find it, so he had to go to the Fabio Store—"

Jacques is now choking on his own laughter.

"So he had to go to the Fabio Store, the only store in New York carrying red silk cravats, and buy a cravat so he could wear it onstage to please his grandmother! It's perfectly logical! Or maybe… since he's a rock star, he needed something to throw at the screaming female fan-girls, and all his other clothes were too valuable to him to throw at them, so he found the red silk cravat, which was the only thing he hated enough to throw away, and decided to perform a cravat striptease later on in the show."

Jacques has now fallen and he can't get up. He is officially dying of laughter.

What? I would not be opposed in any way to a cravat striptease as performed by Jules Casablancas. As a matter of fact, I should make a T-shirt: _"Cravat striptease? Oh, yes please."_

Jacques has now restored himself to his rightful position. "Wow, Fleur—without you, there'd be a lot less laughter in my life."

Hmmm… not sure whether or not to take that as a compliment.

**5:00 p.m.** – I am not sure whether I should stop over and see whether Michael is back from being sensible on the town; I am, however, very sure that it would be an extremely bad idea for me to pop out into the hall and see if Harry is there. Is it "popping out into the hall," if only my head pops out of the door? Well, I'm sure it's not… I'm going to go look out…

**5:25 p.m.** – Aah! He was there! He was looking gorgeous! He was laughing animatedly! He was leaning against the wall in his trademark "shag me, shag me, I am asking to get shagged" manner! He was torturing me, the damn eye candy, he was torturing me! He is in direct violation of the Geneva Convention.

Okay. Fine. I lived in a America for a year. Do you seriously want me to know what that _is?_

**7:35 p.m. – **Michael is currently dropping by, as per my request, and says he is happy to celebrate the end of the school year with me—he's taking me to a French restaurant (in honor of the French-ness I _know_ you thought was gone). Hee-hee, plan for De-Lustification is going beautifully.

**10:45 p.m. – **Beautifully! _Beautifully_ I said! NO! My plan is just about as beautiful as… _shivers…_ _Steven Tyler_. (Crap, now I have to lock my windows and doors. Hold on.)

**11:00 p.m.** – Done locking windows, doors, plugging crevices, and blocking fireplace. Have had to turn all of the lights on like I did when I was ten. I've had to plug my ears with the sounds of _Alone, Together_ just to stop feeling shivery and scared. I should listen to more pop music, I think. Rock is doing nothing for me.

_Fleur Delacour's Personally Most Influential Music Stars of All Time_

1) Jules Casablancas for obvious reasons. He has recently surpassed Jude Law in amount of thinking-minutes; I believe this is a sign he needs his own category in my AAC. Of course, the fact remains that all my J-boys (Jude, Jules, and Jonathan) will stay in my heart forever, no matter who happens to be first in the minute count. Still—when did Jude Law last wear a cravat? _Exactly_.

2) Tie. Steven Tyler and Mick Jagger because I am equally scared to death of both of them. Steven Tyler looks like a caricature of himself, with his skinny little body and his huge head and overlarge collagen lips of unsurpassed width, and his screaming at concerts as opposed to singing—how the _hell_ did he father Liv Tyler? And then there's Mick Jagger, who looks like he belongs in a tomb at Giza and someone has illegally dug him up and intends to sell him on the black market.

3) Fall-Out Boy. Adore them, despite recent shot to fame, because I loved them before that. Though I am not sure whether or not _Take This to Your Grave_ is as good or better than _From Under the Cork Tree_, I am very sure that I can look forward to great things from them. Except for, judging from a recent SNL performance (not to be all judgmental or anything, or to suggest anything that might result in lawsuits of libel, slander, etc.), I'm pretty sure one of them is on drugs. I'm _not_ saying which one, _especially_ not the one with the penchant for Smucker's Uncrustables, but I'm just saying _you're not supposed to play your guitar like that! _I'm not saying which one though. But it's _definitely_ not the one who looks like he should be on the Addams family, as he has stolen the skin of the lead singer in _Good Charlotte_ and put it on. Definitely.

Not.

4) Britney Spears. As you can tell, my life's ambition is now to be a pop star, slowly spend my youth wearing less and less clothing, then finally have my backup singer's baby in a culmination of everything trashy. Somewhere in there, I will also abuse my baby and walk through public bathrooms with no shoes on. Because everyone knows rich people can't get E-Coli. Anyway, I honestly must say that after having spent the majority of my life in a school uniform at Beauxbatons, there had to be _someone _I was channeling. She sparked the sexiness of uniforms, I must say. What a trailblazer.

_Oh baby, baby, how was I supposed to know_… _that babies should wear car seats?_

5) Relient K. They taught the United States how to incorrectly spell "reliant" and single-handedly lowered everyone's verbal SAT scores by 10 points. Also, thanks to them, while I was in the US, I lost two pounds (before I gained eight) on sheer vomiting. It was the emo. I'm allergic. Levels of over eight parts per billion can be toxic.

6) The Killers. Not only is their music lovely, but their _Mr. Brightside_ music video taught us that even girls with big white hair can get the guy. Even if that guy is Julia Roberts' less famous brother, Will. And not Brandon Flowers.

7) A Perfect Circle. They redefined the word creepy. And now I have background music for when I am stalking—I mean, _casually observing_—Harry. Fortunately, their influence spans to inmates across the country, waiting for their sentence to be up to the tune of _Magdalena_.

8) Gwen Stefani. Um, she is so cool? Why are there even questions? She is awesome—I now have a stomach to aspire to. Also, she allowed Americans to regain the 10 points they lost on the SAT in misspelling reliant by teaching them how to correctly spell "bananas."

9) Maroon 5. They have introduced a new trend—wife-beating chic. (See John Legend's _Ordinary People_ music video.) You think Legend was the first person to introduce smacking around "his woman?" No! It's not true! After _This Love_ took it's toll on Adam Levine, he made it _Harder to Breathe_ for everyone in the room as they listened to his stalker-ish panting saying things like: _I have the tendency of getting very physical, so watch your step, 'cause if I do, you'll need a miracle._ That's okay, Adam—put (incredibly violent and painful) pressure on my hips and sink in your (sharp and scratchy) fingertips, every inch (why are you measuring?) of me: because you know that's what I want you (NOT) to do.

10) The Click Five. Everyone knows if you put a _the_ in front of your band name, you will automatically be cool—especially if you are treated like crap by _Just the Girl_ you're looking for. She pushes you in the pool, doesn't talk to you on the phone, she's cold and she's cruel, she "knows just what to say so your whole day is ruined," _and_ she knocks you off of your feet? Ladies and gentlemen, it's wife-beating chic backlash. Clearly a very vicious female is emotionally and physically abusing The Click Five and they are simply too ashamed to come forward. However, the Fleur Delacour Feed the Rock Stars Foundation would be glad to take this wannabe rock band in and give them sandwiches. This band is so influential because it has introduced the world to the reality of domestic violence from the perspective of the male victim.

I'll just tell you about my un-beautiful date tomorrow. Before John Legend and Adam Levine beat me in my sleep.

**Day One-Forty-Four of Free Independence**

**Saturday, June 19th, 2005**

**Contemplating Aesthetically Displeasing Quality of De-Lustification Plans**

**10:20 AM**

**10:20 a.m. –** As I was saying last night, my date was not beautiful. Michael and I arrived at the restaurant, being generally happy with each other, laughing amicably as I was noting to myself how having a boyfriend who is not Harry Potter is just fine. We were seated and we were served with lovely French cuisine. We were still laughing amicably—_nothing_ was going wrong. Everything was going in a generally lovely manner. Then… _then…_

"I'm really glad we went out tonight," says Michael, eating in a very admirable manner. I mean, most of the time when guys eat, it's like watching a cannibal eat someone's leg. However, Michael was very neat about the entire thing, and he was courteously not paying attention to the girls across the room that were giggling and smiling suggestively in his direction. "I haven't had fun like this in a long time," he smiles. He says all the right things. It's almost as nice as it would be if it were Harry saying all the right things, but this is good. It's heartwarming in a very demi-platonic way. "It's nice having such a safe girlfriend."

I was happily sipping on Chardonnay (which is not liquor, but fine wine and completely different from regular alcohol), enjoying the ambience of the room and the music of the self-playing violins. I was happily partaking of some very excellent escargot. And then all of sudden, the brakes screeched in my head. _Excuse me?_ So I did what I always do, in my infinite attractiveness. The escargot rocketed itself out of my mouth onto the front of Michael's shirt and I stared at him in terror, as if he had suddenly turned to Mick Jagger before my eyes.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked.

_Wrong? Wrong? Well, _yes, _there's something wrong? I'm your _safe_ girlfriend!_

"No," I said, politely and meekly, my eyes looking for something other than him to concentrate on until sanity and composure were regained. And my eyes found something all right—Harry and Hermione, across the restaurant happily eating together. They were _sharing_ a plate.

"Excuse me," I said, making my way towards the bathroom. _Composure! Where are you? POISED! I'm POISED!_ Though apparently, I am not _poised_, I am _safe_, like seatbelts and birth control pills.

So I stood in the bathroom, unsure of whether to vomit, tear my hair out, or cry. After several minutes of contemplation, all of them seemed like very bad, very useless ideas. "What would Jesus do?" I thought—and then I wondered why Jesus was being called "safe" by his boyfriend. "What would Grandmère Jeanette do?" Of course, then I realized that Grandmère Jeanette was happily married (until my Grandpère's tragic death) and would not need to deal with this stupid problem. "What would _Renée _do?" Renée always has answers for _everything!_ Then I realized that Renée is probably the most unsafe person I know—she should have _Hazardous_ tattooed on her foot.

Wait. She does.

So what did I do? I suddenly developed a stomach bug and went home.

**12 NOON **– Nobody ever told me I was safe. I wish someone had—I would have joined a motorcycle gang or something. I could have started chain-smoking, or gone touring with a rock band, or… dear God, I'm so safe that I can't think of any more dangerous things I could do!

**1:04 p.m.** – Perhaps the dictionary will understand what I cannot.

**safe **sayf

_adjective_ (_comparative_ **saf·er**, _superlative_ **saf·est**)

**1. **

**not dangerous: **unlikely to cause or result in harm, injury, or damage

 _Is it safe to open the window?_

**2. **

**not in danger: **in a position or situation that offers protection, so that harm, damage, loss, or unwanted tampering is unlikely

 _You'll be safe with me._

 _It's hidden in a safe place._

**3. **

**unharmed or undamaged: **in an unharmed, uninjured, or undamaged condition

 _They're safe, but the car's beyond repair._

**4. **

**sure to be successful: **certain to be successful or profitable, and not at risk of failure or loss

 _a safe investment_

**5. **

**unlikely to cause trouble: **unlikely to cause trouble or controversy

 _Is it safe to talk about politics with them?_

**6. **

**probably correct: **unlikely to be wrong

 _It's safe to assume that the weather will be good._

**7. **

**cautious and conservative: **cautious with regard to risks or unforeseen problems, conservative with regard to estimates, or unadventurous with regard to choices and decisions

 _The safe option is just to put the money in the bank._

**8. **

**dependable: **able to be trusted or depended on

 _Don't worry, your child's in safe hands._

**9. **

baseball **having reached base successfully: **having reached a base or home plate without being put out

_noun_ (_plural_ **safes**)

**1. **

**container for valuables: **a strong metal container, often with a complex locking system, for the storage of money and other valuables

**2. **

**storage container: **a container for storage or protection, especially a ventilated box or small cupboard for keeping food cool or fresh (_dated_)

**3. **

**condom: **a condom (_slang_)

**4. **

**place for storing milk: **a storage house or shed for storing milk and other perishables (_regional_)

13th century. Via Old French _sauf_ from Latin _salvus_ .

-**safe·ly**, _adverb_  
-**safe·ness**, _noun_

**Microsoft® Encarta® Reference Library 2005. © 1993-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.**

Hm. Perhaps my boyfriend thinks I am a condom.

Noooo… I'm probably adjective option five: "unlikely to cause trouble." I am _safe_. He never needs to worry about what I get up to when he is gone, he never needs to worry about not trusting me, he never needs to worry that if he leaves me alone I will burn down a building or have an affair with his brother—that's horrible! I don't _want_ to be safe! I want to be dangerous and fascinating! I want him to worry he could lose me at any given time! Otherwise he will just go partying in Las Vegas and _not_ worry if I'll be there when he gets back! My being safe equals him being _free! _Free to do whatever/whoever whenever he wants!

Noooo!

**3:45 p.m.** – I must make a list.

Unsafe Things That Dangerous People Do

1) Dangerous people do crazy things, like jump off buildings and walk across hot coals—but I really don't think any of that is very sexy. Unless perhaps Johnny Depp did it. In his _Pirates of the Caribbean _costume.

2) Dangerous people are always moving—on motorcycles, private jets, and in fast cars, of course. You turn around and they are suddenly gone, leaving you wondering for days where they went and why! Dangerous people also do these things wearing fabulous clothes. However, as am in the wizarding world, random disappearances aren't all that exciting, so the only thing left is the fabulous clothing.

3) Dangerous people are hot people—who wouldn't worry that their significant other could be lost at any given time when their significant other is hotter than the surface of the kitchen stove (when it's on)? Especially when everyone _else_ has come to notice how dangerously hot aforementioned significant other is?

4) Dangerous people have mysterious histories of dangerous activities—like for example: Aylesford is marrying Renée who is dangerous and has a list of dangerous activities in her past that is a mile long. To her credit, Renée has chain-smoked in eight different countries (all spur-of-the-moment trips), been in a French motorcycle gang, had 37 different boyfriends, been praised as Beauxbatons' Hottest Alumna _EVER_ by the Pretty Sticks Monthly Magazine, and she has spent 87 percent of her life in naughty lingerie. She has modeled in Italy, gotten a jailhouse tattoo (reading _Hazardous)_ in a Turkish prison, _and_ jumped off a bridge in the Cayman Islands. And when _she_ was twenty, she spent two months touring with The Weird Sisters. Naturally, when Aylesford realizes this (probably when the caterer they hire for their wedding remembers her from an excursion in Moscow), he is going to be scared to death he is going to lose her. Thus, Renée will have the _fastest, _most expensive wedding ever.

I, unfortunately, do not have a mysterious history of dangerous activities, because I am the least mysterious person on the face of the planet. I could not be mysterious if I tried. The only dangerous and mysterious things I have done are things I do _not_ want my boyfriend to know about, i.e. certain underwear incidents.

**7:23 p.m.** – I am still thinking of ways to be dangerous and it is not working. I would be scared out of my mind to jump off a bridge! I'm too scared to _jump off my bed_ in the mornings! Walking across hot coals would ruin my already unattractive feet forever—and then it would probably hurt to wear flip-flops, slingbacks, or sandals—I'd probably have to rub salve on them in the mornings after I cautiously step out of bed—how disgusting—oh dear. In the wizarding world, where are the private jets and fast cars and motorcycles—somehow riding off into the sunset on a fast broom doesn't conjure the same feelings. Though, I must admit, when it comes to certain high-flying broom-riders, I wouldn't mind so much. As for hotness… I've tried to be hot. I have tried _soooo _hard—I have tried working out, every diet book in the world, and I'm still…

127 pounds. Bah-humbug.

I look flabby, I feel flabby, and I'm so lucky that I was the second child instead of the third, because otherwise I would have the unfortunate nickname of Flabby Gabby for the rest of my life…

The only people who would flock to my supposed hotness would include… Snape and Draco Malfoy. How promising.

I've never smoked a cigarette, let alone chain-smoked one; the only countries I've ever been to are France, England, and America, quite predictably; my boyfriend count stands at 6; the entire administration of Beauxbatons can only recall my name in connection with the words "oh, it's that girl who embarrassed us at the Triwizard Cup—let's spit on her memory;" all my modeling has been in front of the mirror; I'm deathly afraid of needles and even more afraid of tattoos given _without_ needles; I've never been to prison; all my experiences with naughty lingerie—and underwear in general—have been a bit bizarre at best and mortifying at worst; I only tour with rock stars (that'd be Julian Casablancas) in my dreams; and I definitely _don't_ have excursions in Moscow.

My mysterious history is less than riveting. I don't have an adoring band of followers who believes ardently in my hotness. I don't do crazy, dangerous things (unless you count certain _stupid_, _childish_, _inadvisable_ things I have done over the past, say… two months or so?). I don't randomly disappear or leave the country, leaving questions in my wake. And I have now been crowned Safe Queen of the Northern Hemisphere. Goody.

I _so_ wish I hadn't locked the liquor cabinet.

**Day One-Fifty-One of Free Independence**

**Saturday, June 26th, 2005**

**Defining Dangerous**

**8:17 AM**

**8:17 a.m. –** Haven't seen Michael all week, as I "am still sick with the sudden stomach bug that viciously attacked me at dinner last Friday—don't come over—love, Fleur." Have instead been brainstorming on being dangerous.

Dangerous Activities This Week: None.

Dangerous Activities This Month: None.

Dangerous Activities This Year: Well… I did flee to Bordeaux for a month, but that wasn't _exactly _dangerous… I did end up in a Lucky Shamrocks scandal, but of course Michael doesn't know that… I found a cigarette yesterday! I _could_ have smoked it! However, I couldn't find matches or a lighter, so I threw it out.

GOOD GOD, AM I A WITCH OR AREN'T I?

"I couldn't find matches or a lighter, so I threw it out." Good God, it's like I've been turned into a Squib or something…

**8:45 a.m.** – I have just set fire to a bar of soap just to prove to myself that I am still a witch. Wait! Does that count as being dangerous?

**10:00 a.m.** – I am so pathetic—I'm just going to go to Flourish and Blotts and buy a _book_ on being dangerous. I might as well, since I cannot manage it on my own.

**11:37 a.m.** – I am at Flourish and Blotts, slowly coming to terms with the fact that there is no _How to be Dangerous_ section in this store. And now I'm simply wandering through the Reference section over and over and over… ohhh crap.

**4:47 p.m.** – How dare Harry read books? He's practically a superhero—he definitely does not need to _read._ That's just ridiculous—and if he does need to read, can't he just be content with _The Daily Prophet_ or something? Can't he just sit at his coffee table and read about the successes of wizards across the world, perhaps the latest news at Gringotts? (Damn; now I'm thinking of a very shirtless Harry sitting at a coffee table reading the paper.)

Anyway, I was in the Reference section, looking for books on general dangerousness, fruitlessly, and… _Harry_ was there. It's like he has nothing better to do than be wherever it is I am—I swear: he's trying to seduce me. It's all thanks to ASP lesson 14.2, Seducing Your Superiors (or, as I always called it, "getting the people above you under you"). So, he was standing in Reference, fingering spines, etc. and generally looking for things, and then he heard me gasp (at the mere sight of him, no less) and looked up. God, he looks so sexy when he's just looking up.

Shivers.

So anyway, he looked up at me and smiled—the "I'm Undressing You in My Mind as We Speak" smile, no less—and said, v. casually, "Hey."

"Hey." Since when does _hey_ sound anything like "I love you, Fleur—let's make haste towards the dictionaries and make passionate love?" Because that's what I heard.

"Hey," I said in return, wishing I hadn't chosen the grey skirt to wear out—it's too short and too lightweight—if ever there was a skirt prone to blowing up at the slightest disturbance, it's that skirt. "So… books?" I said. I sounded very intelligent—_not_.

He laughed. "Yes, books."

At which point I started looking frantically towards the dictionaries, wondering at which point we were going to make passionate love. Why is it that from Harry words like _books_ and _hey_ are immediately translated into something sexual?

Then he started walking towards me, all slowly and wonderfully, as if he _knew_ I really, really, really wanted to make a mad dash for the dictionaries! Then, brief and blinding images of chocolate fountain bliss flashed into my head, and I'm afraid I let out another little gasp, which stopped Harry what must have been feet—but felt like inches—away from me. "Are you all right?"

I had lost the capacity to utter entire sentences. "Hiccups," I whispered. It doesn't make any sense that I suddenly hoped that a common cure for hiccups included prolonged snogging.

"You should get some water," he said. _WHY WERE WE WHISPERING?_ That's what doesn't make sense! _Why_ were we whispering!

Oh, I get it. He was whispering just to seduce me.

"You're right," I whispered back. The feet between us had finally reduced to inches. _Dangerous_ inches.

"You know, I have lots of water in my flat," he said. For a moment, I forgot that the world is 75 percent water and that I had a tap in my _own_ flat.

"Oh really?" I queried.

He nodded and grinned in far too suggestive a manner for someone straight out of school. "Follow me—I have the perfect cure for your hiccups," he said, while I frantically thought to myself: _please let it be kissing, please let it be kissing, please let it be kissing…_

All right. Everyone in the world should know that hiccups (even fake hiccups invented to cover up one's own lust) can't be cured by making out furiously with Harry Potter. I was just praying that Harry didn't know that.

So we got to his apartment, which I remember from the tea-drinking incident of June 4th, and he very graciously got me a glass of water. I could swear Harry's water tastes better than my water. Then again, everything about Harry tastes better.

Damn, damn, damn. Why do I think these things?

So I was sitting at his table drinking water as he wandered around the apartment as if he were thinking about something highly serious, and then he stopped and started looking at me. And looking at me. And _looking_ at me. And then I started grinning, which lead to full on beaming, which led to giggling. "Harry," I giggled, probably seeming as if I had no less intelligence than a stick of butter, "Harry, why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not staring at you," he said, smiling.

"Yes, you are! You're staring at me and I want to know why."

"No, I swear, I'm not staring at you," Harry said, blushing in a truly adorable way that only he ever does. It's like he never did ASP at all, and he's just a blushing adorable little boy. A blushing adorable little boy who happens to be _The Snitch Report's _Sexiest Teen two years running.

"Fine," I said, giving him a suspicious look, finally draining my glass, and making my way towards the sink. I supposed that since I had come to his flat for water and now I had retrieved and sipped—as slowly as possible—this water, I should leave. But I didn't want to leave. And, besides, as I was setting the glass on the sink as slowly as possible, I could _feel_ Harry's eyes on me. And, with the glass barely crossing from the outermost rim of the sink, I couldn't help but turn around—to find Harry, not feet, not inches, but millimeters away from me.

Of course, I'm not complaining.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Whispering again.

And, within a few seconds, I realized exactly what Harry was doing. Rather, he explained it to me. The French way. With his mouth.

Kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing… and kissing and kissing… And Harry continued kissing me (like a romance novel, hands in my hair and everything—ridiculous, but as if you aren't jealous of my ridiculous activities) until we got so carried away that the glass I had set on the table fell and shattered into the sink.

_Smash._

"I think I should go," I said, making a break for the door before I turned around and flung my arms around him. "This is… this is a bad idea…" So I got to the door, before Harry stopped me with just seven words.

"But your hiccups are gone, aren't they?" he grinned.

When he's right, he's right.

**7:12 p.m.** – I am pretending as if I have not had Harry's tongue in my mouth today. I am going to concentrate on being dangerous for my boyfriend and for my self-esteem. I am _not_ going to bite my nails into itty-bitty pieces. I am calm, calm, calm… I am calm…

Why does he do this to me? Why does he kiss me and then… and then… and then _kiss _me?

He is taken! I am taken! We should be respecting each other's taken-ness! Instead we are behaving like oversexed teenagers! I stopped being a teenager more than a _month_ ago! No!

HELP! HELP!

Wait a minute—when a hormonal French girl calls for help, there's only one name that comes to mind: _Jacques._

**8:00 p.m.** – I am so glad I Floo Jacques whenever I do anything as serious as sneezing—except for when he pisses the crap out of me.

**Jacques:** _Why?_ Why? Why are you Flooing me _now?_

**Fleur:** You _almost_ sound as if you aren't ecstatic to hear from me. I'm sure that's just a mistake on my part.

**Jacques:** It was a mistake to Floo me, yes. Janine's over. We're having dinner.

**Fleur:** And I'm vomiting inside my mouth. It's like we complete each other.

**Jacques:** What do you want?

**Fleur: **Aside from wanting you to stop being a boy-bitch? I want you to help me!

**Jacques: **Hold on, Batgirl, I have to send Alfred to bring around the Bat-mobile. Don't put on your cape while I'm not looking.

**Fleur:** I hate you. You're not listening to me.

**Jacques: **Fine. What?

**Fleur: **What I really wanted you to hear was my desperate cries for help: HELP! I! AM! DESPERATE!

**Jacques: **Just put that on a billboard. All your boyfriend troubles will be solved. Can I eat now? My stomach is going to start eating _itself_ soon.

**Fleur:** I don't give a damn about your stomach! Jacques! I'm safe!

**Jacques: **Oh, good, from the mutant chicken with teeth in Germany? I read about that in the paper too—

**Fleur: **No! I'm safe!

**Jacques:** You're on the pill?

**Fleur: **No, loser! I'm safe! My boyfriend called me safe! Safe! Safe like "if she goes off to another country, which she never does, she won't get a jailhouse tattoo and chain-smoke with hot Russians" safe! Safe like "she'll never walk across hot coals to get to the stoners on motorcycles" safe! Safe like "she'll be here when I get _back_" safe! Safe! SAFE LIKE "I'M A TROPHY GIRLFRIEND, I DON'T BREATHE, I ONLY LIVE TO BELONG TO YOU ALWAYS WITH NO WORRY OF THEFT" SAFE! Safe like "I could have INSURANCE on this" safe!

**Jacques:** Calm down, Fleur.

**Fleur:** NO! I will not calm down! I don't want to be safe! I want to be _dangerous!_ I want to be "tours with Julian Casablancas wearing a thong that says _Hazardous_ on it" dangerous! I want to be "jumps off bridges and eats chocolate and never gets fat and models naughty lingerie in Stockholm" dangerous! I wanna be dangerous, Jacques! Dangerous! I want the D in Delacour to stand for _dangerous!_

**Jacques: **Fleur. There is no _F_ in _dangerous_. There is an _R_ in _dangerous_, for Renée. There is a _G_ in _dangerous_, for Gabrielle. But there is no _F_ in _dangerous._

**Fleur: **What? What are you saying? ARE YOU SAYING THAT I'M SAFE?

**Jacques: **There is an _F _in _safe_—that's all I'm saying.

**Fleur:** WHAT!

**Jacques:** It's basic _spelling!_ I'm an English tutor! What are you going to do?

**Fleur:** I'll tell you what I'm going to do! I'm going to go buy a thong!

**Jacques:** Never, never _ever_ say the word _thong_ in front of me _ever!_

**Fleur: **I'm dying! I'm dying! Jacques, I'm going to die a virgin!

**Jacques:** Fleur, stop freaking out! You're going to _make me freak out!_

**Fleur:** I'm going to go lose my virginity!

**Jacques:** Fleur, no! Stop! No! I didn't mean to insinuate that you're safe! You're not safe! You're dangerous—at least to me!

By this point, I wasn't hearing him anymore. I was headed for the door to find a lingerie shop. I grabbed my coat (wow, getting a coat to go take your clothes off) and opened the door, and who did I see standing there but: my perpetual savior.

"Okay, fine. Put on your cape—we're going shopping," Jacques smiled.

"You're my superhero," I beamed, throwing my arms around him.

"I know."

* * *

**A/N:** For the sake of the sweepstakes: true names of the _Wealthy Witch_ book names mentioned in this chappie. For reviewer points! 2 reviewer points per correct answer--if you win, you pick your prize. But I'm sorry, I can't send you a neatly packaged Orlando Bloom--that would constitute kidnapping. Send me a PM. For example:

_Wealthy Witch_is ?

_The Scope of Everything I Desire Encompasses Everything There Is_ is really ?

Anyway, much love! Please review!


	15. July: Crimes of Passion

**July:** Crimes of Passion, a.k.a. How Fleur Delacour Got Her Towel Back

* * *

**Day One-Fifty-Six of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, July 1st, 2005**

**Identifying Various Shades of "I'm Embarrassed" Red**

**3:44 PM**

**3:44 p.m. **–I am beginning to wonder what it means that I always end up underwear shopping with Jacques. Perhaps is some sort of sign that "underwear is my friend." Underwear, however, is not Jacques's friend, seeing as he has turned… shall we call it _red_ or _crimson?_

I don't think Jacques is _comfortable_ with bra and underwear sets. For example, I have just picked one up, and he is already turning… shall we call it _scarlet?_ "Sexy?" I ask. It's a very simply _yes _or _no_ question; however, Jacques seems… shall we say _completely unable to answer it?_

"Um… um… Fleur?" he says in a baffled tone of voice, fiddling with his collar, fanning himself, taking a look at his watch. I don't think Jacques is as committed to making me dangerous as he should be, considering that it is his job to be my superhero, and superheroes help other people. After all, if he were truly committed to the problem of my lack of dangerousness, he would not be frantically searching for exits and shifting uncomfortably right now.

"Sexy…?" I ask, holding up the red set as opposed to the black set, "or not sexy? Really sexy… or kind of sexy? In_cred_ibly sexy…?"

And then Jacques stops making all sense at all and gives himself over to a series of stutters and stammers and blushes. "Fleur…"

"Ooh, _too _sexy then—putting it back…"

Is it just me, or is Jacques incredibly relieved to hear this? He takes a deep breath and leans casually (as in, "I am trying desperately to act casual when I really am the most nervous person in the room" casual) with a fraction of his weight on the side of the dressing room door. _Dressing rooms? Brilliant!_

"You know what, Jacques—maybe I should be trying these on—"

_Thump._

"Jacques, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he says, picking himself off the floor and dusting himself off. And here I never thought of Jacques as being the fainting type. "Just a little… _woozy_ that's all…"

"Okay…"

Perhaps underwear shopping is a tiny bit easier when we're shopping for _his_ underwear.

**5:47 p.m.** – Back from a thoroughly exhausting afternoon of lingerie shopping with Jacques. Bought some seventeen outfits, which means Jacques is on oxygen right now and will not be able to speak for another two hours for sheer embarrassment. Poor Jacques. He is currently passed out on my couch.

"Jacques, I made some tea—would you like to come get it?" I ask, feeling very Nurse/June Cleaver-like, having used a blue-and-white china pattern that looks very dainty and English. I can definitely imagine sipping tea with the Queen of England with this china, or perhaps with Princess Diana in heaven, which, I would imagine, would be infinitely more fun.

"Fleur, I told you: I can't _stand_."

Men are so weird.

However, thanks to underwear shopping, etc. and dangerous plans, my boyfriend will have to stay in love with me (supposing he ever was in love with me or will ever fall in love with me) and I can stop freaking out. Sort of. You know. Something like it.

**6:00** **p.m.** – Have just had absolutely riveting conversation with Jacques, who is still practically passed out on my couch, refusing to drink the tea I am continuously waving underneath his nose.

"Can you stand yet?"

"No."

"Can you stand yet?"

"No."

"Can you stand yet?"

"No!"

"Jacques, I think you need to calm down," I said in my wisest voice, nodding in a way I imagine Nurse June Cleaver would to assure the most insane of patients.

"No kidding," Jacques said, plopping his face back into the pillow. "No offense, Fleur, but I think what would really help me calm down is if you sort of… went away?"

After which I tried not to look hurt. My version of trying not to look hurt sometimes includes a mild pout and a brief whimper, followed by a dejected slackening of posture. Jacques's response to my version of trying not to look hurt is often met with a look of general "I must fix this!" upset-ness.

"I mean… I'm not feeling very, er, _calm_ and you, er, aren't really _helping_," Jacques explained, wide-eyed—his assuring nature always, always wins in the end.

"Okay," I said, sighing exasperatedly, heading for the door—if Jacques needs me to go away right now, I suppose I shall have to run away into town and have a drink for a while until he properly recovers, even if this is not what Nurse June Cleaver would do. As my hand reached the doorknob, I was struck by the most brilliant of dangerous ideas. "Jacques, how do you feel about nudity?"

"CALM, FLEUR, I AM TRYING TO BE _CALM!_"

Well, someone's all hot and bothered.

**7:00 p.m.** – Am not entirely sure whether or not lingerie-shopping venture was a success, as the entire thing ended up being rather confusing—especially with my own personal in-store fashion show.

While Jacques was outside feeling woozy, I was in the dressing room changing into a very _Moulin-Rouge_-esque set. I have decided the point is not whether or not Michael ever actually sees any of my seventeen new underwear choices, but the point is that I know I'm wearing them, so I can feel properly dangerous. And dangerous minds leads to dangerous actions, which leads to… well, my being dangerous, right? Exactly! Which equals Michael not dumping me and perhaps a vacation in Hawaii (where he will preferably look only at me).

"Jacques!" I whispered, poking my head out of the dressing room door after I'd finished changing, "come in here!"

"Are you insane?" Jacques exclaimed, turning vermillion. "I'm not coming in there—you're wearing—you're wearing—well, you're not really wearing anything!" This suggestion seemed to offend Jacques's sensibilities, but I could have sworn a few decidedly male heads swiveled in our direction.

"Oh come on, Jacques, it's okay—it's just us. _Besides_, I've seen your underwear, it's totally even—you show me yours, I show you mine—who's complaining?"

"Fleur…" Which is Jacques's pleading, endearing response to everything he doesn't want to do. _Fleur, please don't make me do this—I am far too gorgeous to bend to your will! _

Which is true.

"Please?" Which is my response to Jacques's pleading, because I know that no matter what, a well-placed please will get Jacques every time. He lived in England from age four to eight—which means his greatest weakness is naturally his politeness. I wonder why the same affliction hasn't possessed Draco Malfoy.

"Fleur…" And he thought he could beat my _please_ with more pleading—never!

"Please? Pretty please? Jacques? Jacques, I looooooove you…"

"Oh fine," he said, dashing into the dressing room and locking the door behind him. _Victory!_ "Why don't these things have roofs?" he asked, looking upwards and rechecking to make sure the door was locked.

"Because the security cameras like to get a view," I replied. Jacques blanched. "I'm KIDDING! There _are_ no security cameras! Relax!"

Jacques proceeded to be completely unable to relax. "Are you sure? Someone could be spying on you _right now_, while you're wearing that—that—"

"Jacques, breathe in… breathe out… and repeat after me—_lingerie._"

"L…"

"Lingerie," I said, using the same soothing voice Pilates Instructor Kathy uses after she lies to me about how many repetitions we're going to do.

"Linger…"

"Jacques, the word is lingerie—and it doesn't matter, because you don't have to say it—you only have to look at it."

"Fleur, I really don't think the combination of me, you, and lingerie is a very good idea," Jacques said, in a final last-ditch attempt to get out of the (apparently) incredibly unpleasant duty of judging my underwear.

"Yay! You said it!"

"Said what?"

"LINGERIE!"

"Oh God."

"Don't pass out just yet," I warned. "Now—this outfit? Is it _voulez-vous coucher avec moi_?"

You know how in cartoons, sometimes characters' eyes become slot machines with dollar signs rolling in them? I could have sworn Jacques's eyes became slot machines with "WTF" emblazoned on them.

"You… you… Fleur, you just asked me to sleep with you." And finally, at this moment, Jacques's furious blushing seized control of his entire face and he was forced to avert his eyes and try to blush and grin discreetly. Poor guy. That's impossible.

"Oh God, Jacques, it's like you were raised in a barn on a farm and on that farm there was no _Lady Marmalade_."

"Oh! Right!" Jacques said in that overexcited high-pitched voice he goes into when he's nervous. "Thank God."

"Why?" I said, apprehensively. "What's wrong with me?" After which I began frantically doing a slow-turn in the mirror, trying to figure out what was so horribly disfigured about me. "Do I just disgust you so much that the very idea of my naked body pressed up against yours in a moment of passion—"

"Oh, _God_, Fleur—stop—"

"—makes you throw up a little in your mouth? The very thought of a feverish lovemaking session _avec moi_ makes you sick to your stomach—"

"No, I'm serious Fleur—stop doing this to me—"

"I mean, seriously, just tell me now why you think I'm so completely nasty; I don't want to go through my entire life not knowing why I'm so repulsive!"

"No! There's nothing wrong with you! You're fantastic—I mean, you're… you're…"

_Pauvre Jacques._ At this point, I realized Jacques was going to die saying _sorry_ if I didn't not halt him immediately. "It's okay… I forgive you—it doesn't matter—you don't _have_ to sleep with me," I acquiesced, knowing Jacques was about to go into one of his stuttering rambling flustered attempts at apologizing which are just so adorable to watch, but I'm sure incredibly mortifying for him.

"I don't?"

"Jacques, do you have _Property of Fleur Delacour_ tattooed to your ass?"

"No…."

"Well, there you go!" I replied. I commenced another slow-turn, this time for the sake of fashion. "Now, good… or not good?"

"Good," Jacques said resolutely.

"How good?"

"Crashing cars all over London good."

"Really now?"

"Making Victor Krum fall off his broom good."

"Seriously now?"

"It's that good," Jacques smiled.

"This is why I love you!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms around a suddenly seriously nervous Jacques.

"Well… well, I love you too, Fleur," he said softly.

"OH MY GOD: THONGS!" I screamed, becoming momentarily distracted by the presence of the 20-point danger increaser and the thought of finding a place where they can print words on underwear and wondering whether or not _Dangerous _or _Hazardous_ was an appropriate word choice.

"Fleur, I told you never to use that word again," Jacques said sternly, like a school-teacher admonishing his student for uttering swears.

"Jacques, today's word was _lingerie_—tomorrow's word is _thongs._ Say it with me now: _thong. _Have you never heard the _Thong Song?_" I then began singing the _Thong Song_ while Jacques plugged his ears and tried to pretend he wasn't standing in an underwear palace. I then proceeded to throw on my clothes and chase him all around the store while he continued to insist upon erasing the word from the dictionary. After which I paid for my "delicates" as Jacques tries to call them without blushing, and we went home. And now he can't stand. I wonder if it's anything to do with the underwear?

**8:00 p.m.** – "I'm back! Are you still feeling off?"

"I'm still feeling _on_ actually," Jacques mutters, as if he thinks by simply talking downwards, I won't be able to hear what he says.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, I didn't say anything," Jacques says. "Do you mind if I spend the night here?"

"What a dumb question—of course you can! Ooh! I have an even _better_ idea—why don't you move in? It could be totally fantastic, and then you could help me be dangerous at any hour of the day, and at some point I could actually get you to drink the tea I make! Wouldn't that be lovely? And then it would be like old times!"

"Old times?"

"I'm nostalgic—now, shut up while I reminisce. And I wouldn't have to Floo you every five seconds about every little thing, and you can make sure I don't sneak out of the apartment to do things I shouldn't do, and keep the liquor cabinet locked, and—"

"Good God, Fleur, what sorts of things do you get up to when I'm not around?" asked Jacques, I'm sure imagining scenarios involving wild swinger parties and an open bar.

"Exactly! Now you'll get to prevent me from doing all those things you don't like for me to do!" Actually, allowing Jacques to do this might impede the process of dangerizing myself, but as if that's what's really at stake here—isn't friendship totally more important? I mean, dangerousness is a very close second, but… "And we can play the drinking game, of course, if you don't lock the liquor cabinet, and that will spare us from the sheer sadness of playing the drinking game alone, which is just trying to get wasted only much, much more depressing—and we can watch crappy sappy movies together and eat ice cream in our bunny slippers—and we can paint each others' nails—and—"

"Fleur, I think you have me confused with someone, I don't know, _female,_" Jacques says to me over a _The Daily Prophet_, with raised eyebrows and a habitually snarky attitude.

"It's my nostalgia! Stop ruining it!"

"If it were nostalgia, wouldn't you be reminiscing about the past?" Jacques adds, once again completely emptying his watering can of depression over my parade.

"Stop ruining my definition of nostalgia!"

Jacques allowed himself a smile. "Okay, sure I'll move in with you. You know, on one condition."

"What?"

"Today's word is _dictionary._"

**Day One-Sixty of Free Independence**

**Sunday, July 5th, 2005**

**Discussing Various Stances on Total Lack of Clothing**

**7:41 AM**

**7:41 a.m. **–Jacques has just finished talking about how Janine is so upset with him for ditching her in France while he returns to England. I have just finished pretending to feel sorry for her. And now that that subject has been finished, it leaves open a space for us to talk about my next phase in dangerousness. Or danger. Whatever. Maybe I should start using that dictionary Jacques bought me.

"Hey, Jacques, I'm thinking of becoming a nudist."

Ah. And Jacques spits his coffee out all over his pants.

"WHAT?"

"You know, you've totally ruined those pants there." I briefly thought of the pain of wearing hot, wet clothing. "You can take them off, if you want—I don't care! I'm a nudist!"

"You have to wear clothes!"

"But I'm dangerous now! Do _dangerous_ people wear clothes?" As far as I'm concerned, Renée spends as little time wearing clothes as possible.

"Dangerous people wear clothes, Fleur—crazy people are nudists! I am going to leave and compile a list of reasons you should keep your clothes on… _forever_… and you are going to sit here and when I come back, you're going to have all your clothes on… or… or else… damn it, Fleur, why do you have to have these ideas?"

"Because that is just the miracle that is me," I beamed. And also because I plan to gain an Olympic medal in mortifying Jacques.

Jacques bent down and gave me a kiss on the forehead before grabbing his coat and heading towards the door. "I'm not guaranteeing that I'll be fully clothed when you get back, Jacques," I warned him, knowing that he was going to go five feet then go insane.

"If you're not, I'm going to carve my eyes out…"

"Or take a picture."

"NO! Fleur! Why do you do this to me?"

_Slam. _I don't know. Why _do_ I do this to him?

**9:07 p.m.** – Jacques has returned with, just as he promised, a scroll of the things that are wrong with nudity. However, right now he is not reading it—he is breathing a sigh of relief. "Oh thank God: _clothes_."

I can only grin. "_I'm not wear-ing un-der-wear…_"

And, naturally, he turned around and headed for the door. And I responded the way I always do—by chasing after him. I just happen to get a kick out of being extremely annoying.

"Who's not wearing panties? Fleur's not wearing panties! Why? Because I'm _dangerous!_"

"Fleur, put on some underwear," Jacques orders, back to me, just outside the apartment and sounding like a concerned parent talking to his daughter about decency and modesty.

"_I'm not wearing underwear…_"

CRAP. And it's just my luck. Why do Harry and Hermione have to take morning strolls? Why can't they just grow fat and lazy indoors like everybody else? Instead of staring at me in shock like so?

I thought I taught Harry about this! According to ASP, you're supposed to keep your mind _closed_ to the people around you—however, I can clearly see (like he has a _neon_ sign above his head) that Harry is singing along with me: "_Fleur's not wearing underwear… _wait a minute… Fleur's not wearing underwear? _FLEUR'S NOT WEARING UNDERWEAR!"_

I can also tell that Jacques is five seconds from laughing his head off. "Shut up," I tell him, as we both dash back into the apartment.

**12 NOON **– "Okay, fine. I should always wear underwear. I've got it. Nudity is a bad idea. Will you stop laughing now?"

Ah, but now Jacques is doubled over in laughter and cannot stop—as a matter of fact, he is so overcome with laughter that he has fallen down and cannot get up. Well, for your information, I am not about to help him. I am simply going to go over to Michael's and be appreciated.

**6:45 p.m.** – "Fleur! You've recovered from your stomach virus!"

"What stomach—oh! Right! Yes! I have made a successful recovery. As a matter of fact, I am feeling great. Really, really great."

If I hadn't stopped talking, Michael probably wouldn't have heard Harry waltzing down the hall singing _Fleur's not wearing underwear_, but as it was, he… well, did. Harry actually has a very nice singing voice, I think, and maybe if he hadn't been singing about what is or isn't under my skirt, I would have appreciated it more. However, as it was, I think it would have been better to keep my underwear between us. Oh _merde, _that didn't come out right.

"What's that about your underwear?" Michael asked, looking at me intensely. Oh dear… I feel a fight coming on…

"Nothing?" It is really starting to bother me that whenever I lie, things become questions that were never questions in the first place.

"Why was Harry Potter just singing about your underwear?" asks Michael, all suspicious and glaring and very upset. So I bounce from one underwear scandal to the next, and I didn't even do anything with _anyone's_ underwear—except mine, which included taking it off, but that's not the point!

"Harry wasn't singing about my _underwear_, he was singing about… a thunder scare?"

"Oh God, Fleur." It's lovely when your boyfriend looks disdainful at your pathetic attempts at lying. He looked almost ready to sit me down and hand me a copy of _Lying for Dummies_, he looked so mortified.

"Okay, look, I'm sorry, Michael! He _was_ singing about my underwear. Are you happy now?"

"I'm not sure I want Harry Potter knowing about what is or isn't under your skirt, Fleur."

"Well, he does—can we just get over it?" I blurted. And then I realized how utterly and completely awful it sounded and clapped my hand over my mouth just a little too late. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. I meant that—I mean that it's not like it sounds."

"It's not?" There was a brief and nerve-wracking silence. At this time in the soap opera, the camera would have zoomed in on Michael's betrayed American face. Then again, isn't America used to being "betrayed" by the French by now? Doesn't Michael have to tell his family I'm his "_freedom _girlfriend?" "God, Fleur, it's like I can't leave you alone for a second. I mean, I turn around and suddenly… I don't know. I'm going to go out, and when I get back, we're going to have to talk—"

I couldn't help myself. "What makes you think I'm going to be here when you get back?" I responded, the words just flying out of my mouth in some sort of volcanic eruption of insecurity and a dire desire to be dangerous. Do you ever have something in your head that you know you shouldn't say, that you conscientiously decide _not _to say, because you can imagine exactly how it would turn out, which happens to be exactly the opposite of the way you _want_ it to turn out, but then you say it anyway just to make sure you were right?

"Oh, Fleur, it doesn't matter—just be here, okay?"

"I can't believe it! I've been _killing_ myself trying to be dangerous for you, and to make myself interesting for you, and to keep you around—since _February_ I've been killing myself over you. I've been on three diets because of you! And you act like I'm disposable!" At least I had the satisfaction of knowing I was right, because this was exactly how I had imagined it would turn out.

"I don't think you're disposable! I don't think you're disposable at all! I just think—"

"Well, that doesn't matter! I _feel_ like I'm disposable! I feel like you could chuck me any time, that I'm not _worth_ your time, that at any second—any time walking down the street—you would open your eyes and realize that I'm not good enough for you, and then you'd—"

"Fleur, stop it." God. American boys. Don't they know not to try to stop a French girl on a roll? _C'est impossible_.

"No—I've been driving myself _crazy_. I've been trying to make you feel like I feel all the time—but it just doesn't work and… I'm so sick of feeling _worthless_ and completely boring all the time." Now I was about to go throw myself on his couch, stick my head under a pillow, and wait for this feeling to pass. Unfortunately, Michael was standing right in front of the couch looking helpless and confused—boyfriends always do in front of close-to-tears me. I fear the only time I'm even vaguely intimidating is when I could explode with sadness all over someone.

"I'm sorry," he said, rocking as if he were unsure whether to try and come near me and comfort me or give me my space. God, the answer is _comfort_ me, always!

"I mean, I suppose it isn't your fault, and, yes, I've been stupid, but… I can't be with you without feeling horrible," I muttered, darting past him and sitting down on the couch as Michael stood, now in front me, probably still just as confused. I have this habit of incoherent speech—something to do with being French and having picked up the word _like?_

"I'm… I'm really, really sorry," Michael said. I mean, really, what else was he supposed to say? What would I have said? Well, I would have been just as confused—if I weren't me, of course, and understanding everything I was saying.

"No, never mind, it doesn't matter," I said. Now it was just weird and uncomfortable, and I hadn't gotten angry, only upset and overemotional—and that left us nowhere whereas a fight would have at least left us in a definite location.

"Fleur, what do you want?" Michael asked, looking at me sincerely, heartbreakingly. He should become an actor on some horrid, weepy to the point of sogginess soap opera—he'd be a star on _As the Crystal Ball Turns_—he's already got the stares down. That, and asking questions we human beings have no idea to answer—that's a staple of daytime television. How am I supposed to know what I want? I can barely get dressed in the morning!

"I don't know," I replied quickly. "I mean, I do know. I… I just want to be alone. Yes, I want to be alone for awhile." It sounded sophisticated enough to me, final without being too harsh, and it left the right amount of uncertainty as good movies and sequels always do: with doors still open to continue later. Perhaps tomorrow, over coffee… in Hawaii. To theme music.

"I'll move out."

However, Michael didn't seem to get the possible sequel allusion. I mean, good God, these American boys… maybe I should have stayed European… See, if Michael were a French boy, he would deem me too emotional, leave (slamming the door, naturally) and come back later saying something like, "Listen, _mon petit chou_—I understand you are upset. Let me take you out to dinner and make it up to you." And then, I would sniffle, grab a Kleenex, then grab my coat and go out to dinner, where (after a five course meal, because we Europeans know how to dine) I would forget all my worries and everything would go back to normal. No one would be moving out. At all. _Ever._

"I never said I wanted you to move out!" I exclaimed, shocked.

"You know, maybe it's good for us… you. I don't want you to be upset anymore. I mean, c'mon, Fleur—I'll pack my stuff tonight." Dear God, overdramatic much? You are not _listening_ to me! Oh, I see what this is…

"You're dumping me."

"I am not dumping you!You're dumping _me_!" Michael retorted, throwing his hands up in the air. I think I should add exasperating boyfriends to my résumé. (And admittedly, I do like this turnaround better—I don't think I would appreciate being dumped by this boy again.)

"Okay."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'OKAY?'" Michael shouted, turning a ridiculous shade of red, and burying his head in his hands.

"What? I thought you _wanted_ to be dumped! Weren't you all: 'I'll pack my stuff tonight?' Weren't you all: 'I'll move out?' What do _I_ mean? What do _you_ mean 'What do I mean okay?' What is _wrong _with you? You are the most confusing human being on the face of the planet!"

"_I'm_ the most confusing human being on the face of the planet? You—"

"Don't turn this around on me! Get packing!"

Wow, I totally see how that whole _crime of passion_ thing works—you do and say stupid things in the middle of an argument. I have a feeling that this is how divorces start.

"Fine!" Michael replied, clearly livid.

"_Fine!_ Have a nice life," I said, blowing Michael Turner one final kiss goodbye as I headed out the door.

**Day One-Sixty-One of Free Independence**

**Thursday, July 9th, 2005 – Laundry Day**

**Waking Up With a Breakup Hangover from 4 Days Ago**

**8:12 AM**

**8:12 a.m. **–I think you can tell a lot about a person by their words first thing in the morning. Jacques's first words are something along the lines of "mrrr…murrrrr….murrmurmur…" and mine are "Oh God, Jacques—I have a break-up hangover."

"Black coffee, a cold shower, and some prescription drugs," Jacques recommends, trying uselessly to roll over and falling off of the couch.

"I hate coffee. And I think Renée stole all my prescription drugs," I sigh. Life seems sort of pointless now, because I don't know what I'm doing. It sort of sucks when you spend forever striving towards one thing and then in less than twenty-four hours, you flush your purpose down the drain. Though, admittedly, pleasing one's boyfriend is an incredibly stupid (and not to mention anti-feminist and submissive) purpose. But still—it was still a purpose, or at least a _mini_-purpose. "But I guess I can take a shower."

"We can talk after you do, okay?" Jacques says, his _Upset Fleur _Radar going off. He smiled. "You can make tea, and I promise I'll drink it."

"Okay."

"Hey, Fleur, you're going to want to take this with you," Jacques warned, throwing a towel in my direction.

"I definitely have a towel in my own bathroom, thank you very much."

"Nope, you don't. Someone has mysteriously gone on a towel-purloining scheme and all of the towels in the building are gone. Fortunately for us, I have great timing when it comes to laundry," he grinned. "As a matter of fact, I'm taking all our stuff to the laundry in a little while, so you're going to want to find something to wear before I do."

"You are such a hygiene dork."

"Yes, well, that's my mother's fault."

"Ah, mothers ruin the best of us."

**6:00 p.m.** - All right, so I went and had a shower, all the while trying to shampoo and exfoliate away all bad, horrid memories of Sunday's fight / breakup, and the disconcerting fact that I am single once more. And after my shower, I wrapped myself in my towel, and made a dash back up to my flat, hoping that Draco wouldn't be prowling the hall waiting for me to make my towel-less appearance. And after I reached my apartment, I found it was empty, as Jacques has (as he detailed on his post-it note) gone into town to buy Janine an "I'm so sorry I ditched you; I'm a jerk" present. So, as the apartment was empty, I decided it would be perfectly lovely, not to mention _completely_ appropriate, to sit on the couch in my towel and drink tea. Because this is my apartment! And I can do whatever I want! Right? Right!

Exactly. Whatever. I'm calm.

So, I was sitting on the couch with my tea and my towel, when suddenly there was a _knock, knock, knock_ on the door. "Who is it?"

"It's Harry!"

In the space of between four and ten seconds, I stopped breathing then revived myself. Then passed out. Then revived myself. "Oh—oh—okay, um—come in." And then: "Wait! No! I'm not decent!"

"Fleur, you really need to let me in!" he called from the doorway, a sort of tremor of panic in his voice, which was all vulnerable and sexy… what is wrong with me?

"Why?" I responded, because I should have the right to resist being seduced at any time I want. Harry may wish to seduce me, but I may (this is hypothetical) _not_ want to be seduced by him. His seduction may be incredibly inconvenient for me! Maybe I don't feel like being the slut / whore / other woman today; he needs to respect that. So, I definitely have the right to ask why the boy wants to come into my apartment when I have clearly stated that I am not yet decent for viewing. Even if, non-hypothetically, I would very much like to be seduced by Harry, and anytime between 7 a.m. and midnight is fine with me.

"Because, Fleur, I need to borrow a towel!"

_Draco's towel-purloining scheme goes horribly, horribly wrong._ Contemplating what Harry had just said, I came to a definite conclusion. There was a naked Harry Potter at my door.

"All right, come in! I'm closing my eyes!" I clapped my one hand over my eyes and clutched my towel with the other, briefly imagining what an incident of well-timed towel-dropping could lead to. In my head, it always seemed to lead to Hermione Granger furiously scratching my eyes out—therefore, I clutched.

I heard a brief scuttling of footsteps, the nervous slam of my front (and only) door, and then, unmistakably, Harry's voice. "Fleur," he said, "I think you're wearing the towel I need to borrow." No wonder Harry passed his ASPIRE with flying colors, because everything he says is seductive; as a matter of fact, I could have sworn that he was inviting me to take my towel off. However, Harry has too much decency and integrity to do such a thing, because he was voted "Most Decent Teen of the New Millennium" by _Witch Weekly_. And magazines like that _never_ lie—except about me. Of course.

My mind momentarily (though, this sort of thing does happen all the time) stopped functioning. "Okay, okay… um… Harry, close your eyes," I said, coming up with a plan.

"What?"

"Okay, you're going to close your eyes and I'm going to hand you my towel, at which point you _are not going to open your eyes._ And then I'm going to go put on some clothes, and then… and then you can go back to your apartment with a free towel." See, I can come up with ideas that aren't stupid! "Harry?"

"Okay, that sounds good."

"If you open your eyes, I'm going to kill you, Harry Potter, and it won't be with a cardboard box either," I said, trying to bring that Potions Mistress edge to my voice, which, sadly, never existed in the first place. As a matter of fact, I could have sworn I heard laughter.

Despite this, I took a deep breath, tossed my towel in what I assumed was Harry's general direction, and made a blind run for my room. Which is a mess. Which is why I couldn't find my clothes. "Damn it!"

"What was that?"

"Nothing!" I called. Okay, so here's my theory: God hates me. Because God hates me, he has sent Mick Jagger on a divine mission to break into my apartment and steal all my clothes, because as everybody knows, rock stars will do anything once. I searched for my clothes for the better part of forever, before finding something that wasn't stolen by Mick Jagger / taken to the laundry by Jacques, my newfound maid: a certain Oxford shirt.

See, now, wouldn't you think a girl was a total whore if she tossed her towel at you and then came back into the room wearing nothing but an Oxford shirt? Of course! See! Harry will think I am a total whore and lose respect for me and then—then—then I'll _be_ a cheap whore! I don't _want_ to be a whore! That means people have a right to _attack_ me!

Anyway, I reluctantly poked my head beyond the doorframe to see Harry, clad in my monogrammed lavender towel, whistling England's national anthemin my living room. And dear God, I will never look at the queen the same way again. And then, the worst part—he was grinning.

"What're you smiling at?" I asked, careful to remain almost completely hidden.

Harry turned his head and revealed that horrible fantastic terrible mischievous schoolboy look of his.

"What?" I persisted, feeling an increasing anxiety.

Suddenly, he blushed and became the shy student in the back of the class (who everyone secretly wants to shag).

"Harry—why are you smiling?"

"Because I opened my eyes," he smiled.

"HARRY, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!" I shrieked, forgetting all reason and dashing out from behind the doorframe in Harry's direction. Strangely, it was not Hermione scratching my eyes out, but me trying desperately to scratch Harry's eyes out—an endeavor which can be extremely unsuccessful when you're trying to attack a Quidditch player with the agility of some exotic jungle cat and you're a croissant-loving French girl who hasn't gotten off of her ass in about a month. So I was uselessly clawing at air, while Harry was laughing his (non-existent) socks off, while there were voices at the door that I was ignoring in favor of trying to punish Harry for his peeping Tom ways. And Harry was trying to get me to sit down and "calm down" and "stop shouting at me" amidst his horrid, gentle laughter, and I was trying to kick him and missing because I have never played a sport in my life, and two someones outside were talking about _Hogwarts: a History_, and then Harry finally succeeded in getting me to sit down, which led to me pulling him down with me, which led to lavender towel slippage, which led to a very awkward silence when Jacques opened the door and Hermione lost all interest in discussing Chapter Seven of _Hogwarts: a History.

* * *

_

**A/N: **I think you know what I'm going to say, but I'm going to say it anyway. I suck. I suck so much that I should have my own sucky reality television show. I am sorry that I suck, but I am bad bad BAD at updating. There have been lots of tests, there has been lots of time away from my computer which has been _completely_ not my fault (I swear!), and then... ugh... exams. And I'm sorry, so sorry, so unbelievably sorry. Sooooooooo sorry. I love you guys. And I suck at updating. Love... but I suck. But I'm trying. Okay.

Please review, and please don't hate.

Ridiculous amount of love for putting up with this,

Femme Teriyaki


	16. Breaks, Breakdowns, Birthdays

**Breaks, Breakdowns, Birthdays, and Dark Alleys**

* * *

**Day One-Sixty-Two of Free Independence**

**Friday, July 10th, 2005**

**In a State of Socio-Emotional Chaos**

**9:00 AM**

**9:00 a.m. **–I am not all right. Bad things. Bad, bad things have happened. Yesterday, after that door was so carelessly thrown open, you can only imagine. There was Hermione, standing in the doorway beside Jacques with her mouth hanging open and Jacques with a humongous laundry bag (because he's a laundry fiend) and Janine's "I'm so sorry I ditched you; I'm a jerk" present shaking in his hands. As soon as the door flew open, I freaked out and tried to hide behind my towel, which led to Harry screaming "FLEUR!" and seizing the towel back. Because, I now see clearly, he needed it more than I did.

Hermione was the first to speak—unfortunately.

"You're _wearing_ her _towel_," she said, her eyes burning holes into my skin and then turning her attention back to Harry.

"Hermione, I _swear_ this is not what it looks like."

See, that line never works. Even in soap operas, saying that never works. Saying that only leads to—

"What the hell do you mean 'this is not what it looks like?'" See, if I weren't so afraid of her, I'd feel empathy for her, because when she said it, she seemed so—yes, furious—but also a little heartbroken and sad. She looked like… like something crumbling. When you're watching a building being demolished—that was what it was like watching her watch us.

I suddenly interjected. "He needed to borrow a towel!" Everything I say has exclamation marks in situations like these.

"Yes!" said Harry.

"Exactly!" I concurred… with myself.

"Because there are no _other_ towels in the building," Hermione said sarcastically.

"Yes!" said Harry.

"Exactly!" She was still staring silently at the both of us, and I urgently wished that I had… well, pants. "Jacques, tell her about Draco's towel purloining scheme."

But Jacques was still just staring and then looking away and staring and looking away again and he wouldn't look at me or focus on anything at all.

"Jacques?" See, then he was starting to worry me, but there were so many other things going on that how could I—how could I do anything? I dragged my eyes from Jacques to Hermione. "Listen, Jacques took all my clothes to the laundry and this is all I had to wear. And Draco's gone and taken all the towels—you can look if you want—but Jacques sent ours out to the laundry yesterday, so I still had a towel, and Harry didn't and—"

"So I came over here looking for a towel, so…" Harry just seemed to me to be in a way that I had never seen him. All dejected and ashamed and feeling horrid at being honest because he knew a lie would have seemed so much better, but knowing that—with all his cursed integrity—he should tell the truth. "Hermione, I'm so sorry. This is… this is all wrong. I didn't mean—"

She just whirled on him and left. And he turned to me with an "I'm sorry about all of this" and then followed after her, leaving me with Jacques, who didn't seem to be completely present and a horrid, evil feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Jacques?" I was sort of afraid of talking too loudly. "Jacques… maybe you should put down that present, you're going to break it…"

Jacques sighed and sat down and it made everything seem very heavy and serious when mere moments ago it hadn't felt very serious at all. So then, he put the present—it had already been wrapped up in glittering wrapping paper and everything—down on the table and just stared at me for a while.

"I didn't…" I began to speak, but then I found that I had no words and I couldn't finish what I wanted to say.

"I'm going to go mail this," Jacques said finally, and he picked up the present from the table and walked out the door.

**10:00 a.m.** – Good God. I am a screw-up. I have decided that Renée was entirely right in regards to me—screw up. Definitely. I should fall off the face of the earth immediately before I take over FEMA or something and thereby ruin the entire world, one country at a time.

I am just sitting here, staring at my wonderfully clean laundry, wondering when Jacques will come back. How lonely the world is when you're a total screw-up. I mean, yes, there are the other screw-ups, but they're afraid to get near to you for fear that you will contaminate them with further total idiocy. And I'm a very public screw-up, besides, what with my underwear scandals and—

Oh God. This had better not be on the front page tomorrow.

Hmmm… just in case there are paparazzi at my window, I'm getting dressed.

**12 NOON – **He's back! He's back!

"All right," he says, very decisively, throwing his coat off onto the coffee table, setting his present for Janine down in a way that makes me hope it's not fragile—because then it's totally broken—and finally, _finally_ looking me in the eye. "I'm giving you forty-seven seconds to explain to me what the hell I just saw."

"Why forty-seven?" I ask, squinting unattractively as only I can do properly.

"Forty-five!"

"Okay, okay!" Did I mention that Jacques is very precise when he's pissed (and all other hours of the day)? "Harry came over here—he needed a towel—you had my clothes—I had one towel! So I put on the only article of clothing I had and gave Harry the towel!"

"And at which point did this require behaving like barn animals?"

_Barn animals?_

"He said something." And I'm aiming to win the Nobel Prize for Ambiguity.

"What something?—twenty-eight seconds."

"Jacques…" Maybe my incessant pleading will make him stop checking the second hand on his watch and make him pay attention to the fact that he can't hate me, as we live together; instead, he must forgive me immediately, dump Janine, and poison Hermione Granger's food.

"Twenty-seven."

"Okay fine—I told him not to look, but he looked and I was mad, and that was me trying to scratch his eyes out, and it's not my fault that towel slippage is incredibly common in situations like these! And no, you can't call time; I'm not done sucking up to you yet! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm _sorry_! You're my best friend and I am seriously going to try to be a responsible—"

"Time!" Jacques says, sitting down next to me on the couch and stopping his watch.

"Adult!" I screech—I'm so breathless and sweaty that I'm sure this counts as some form of exercise, so I'm not going to do Pilates today, because that forty-seven seconds must have burned like 400 calories. I turn to look at him. "Seriously, do you forgive me if I make an endeavor to be a responsible adult who… who thinks about her actions before acting… like a… _barn animal?_"

He laughs. "I already forgave you—I've spent the past three hours at the movies."

"I HATE YOU!" I shouted, seizing a cushion and beating him frankly with it—thankfully he was wearing more than just a towel, so no one could have walked in at that moment and decided to hate me more than they did yesterday. Except maybe Janine, because of my secret happiness that her present is probably broken.

"You're getting yourself in so much trouble," Jacques says, which is very true. "I don't know how you do it, but you have impossibly bad timing. How is it possible to live so… _awkwardly?_"

"I prefer _dangerously_, but thanks—thanks a lot," I said, offended. I live _awkwardly?_ What sort of sentence is that? I mean, it's not like I'm a contortionist or _quelque chose comme ça_—I live like a normal human being, except for the fact that I'm constantly getting caught in lies and—damn it—_awkward_ situations. Okay. Maybe I do live awkwardly, but I swear that by the end of this year, I will live dangerously! "It's not my fault that I, like many people in this world such as those who have racked up gambling debts or spend their days in Turkish prisons, have extraordinarily bad luck. Some people do far worse things than I do and, for example, marry billionaire aerobics instructors and have affairs with hot caterers while never getting caught. But whenever I so much as take a shower, it turns into something horrible and bad—that is not my fault."

"You could have kept your towel on," Jacques mutters in a very indiscreet sort of way.

"What exactly was I supposed to do—just say, 'Oh, sorry, Harry. I mean, yes I know that you're shivering outside my door stark naked, and that there are no other towels in this building, but I feel like being evil today, and have decided to let you stand there until the _wind_ blows you dry?'"

"You could have told him to go back to his own apartment and put on some _clothes_, since he's _four doors down_," Jacques pointed out. Oh dear—that does make sense. "I wonder why he was standing outside _this_ apartment knocking, when he could have just gone to his own."

"Maybe he's very partial to towels," I said quietly.

"No…" Jacques said thoughtfully, quieting down as well. "I think he's just partial to you."

I gave Jacques a quick look just as he was giving me one, and the silence just sat in the air until it was broken by a vicious fit of sneezing on my part—like Jacques says, I have impossibly bad timing. But that can't be helped, now can it?

**Day One-Sixty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Thursday, July 16th, 2005**

**Waking Up to Find a Most Interesting Surprise In My Bed**

**5:00 AM**

**5:00 a.m. **–I don't know about you or what goes on in your personal life, but I really don't think it's an every day occurrence to wake up and find Harry Potter sitting on your bed. I really don't. Seriously—just perched there, reading a magazine as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, as if perhaps he might kick back and watch TV there on my baby blue comforter, maybe open a bag of chips and drink a soda—like he wasn't just sitting on my bed at five o'clock in the morning.

"Oh! I'm sorry I woke you," he says. _I'm sorry I woke you? What the hell?_ _Then what in God's name are you sitting on my bed for—_TRYING_ not to wake me?_ "Don't say anything—I mean, whisper. Is Jacques here?"

"I don't know—you tell me, Mr. 'I'm Sorry I Woke You; I'm Only _Sitting_ On Your _Bed_,'" I snapped.

"Well, sorry, but it's very important," he said, flipping the page in the magazine over, turning back, dog-earing the page and tossing it in the corner. Very carelessly, nonchalantly, because "so what?"—it's not like he's breaking and entering or anything! "I need your help."

"No! You're—you're sitting on my bed—you're trying to get me into trouble again, and, Harry Potter, I've gotten into enough trouble because of you! Scores of people across England have lingering hate for me because of you, Hermione will _kill_ me the next time she sees me because of you—my boyfriend broke up with me because of you—I mean, not just because of you, but—"

"You and Michael broke up?" grins Harry, too perkily for five a.m. Maybe he's made frigging coffee in my frigging kitchen and he _drank_ some before he came to sit on my frigging bed! I mean, he could have been, what, _watching_ me sleep! I'm not attractive when I'm sleeping—who is? I mean, I am not _prepared_ for this—it's not like I have lip gloss on or anything, or any makeup, or that my hair's even brushed or anything—I'm in a _nightgown_ for God's sake—I'm not ready to be receiving visitors, least of all an international crime-fighting celebrity like a certain Harry James Potter! No! This is not acceptable!

"Yes—now get off my bed!" Wow. Who would have thought that six months after getting a job teaching him, I would be telling Harry Potter to get off my bed? Then again, six months ago, if I knew I was telling Harry Potter to get off my bed, I would have kicked myself.

"I need your—"

"Help. I know. Get the hell off my bed!"

"Fine!" Harry said, springing off my bed like it was on fire—and probably because I kicked him. "You're not all daisies and sunshine when you wake up, are you, Fleur?"

"No, not exactly." Then I realized that I should immediately put on more clothes while in the presence of Harry Potter, so that when forces beyond my control leave me half-naked with him (which they always do), it will take a lot longer than usual. "What do you want, Harry?'

"Well," he said, leaping to the door to keep me from turning the handle, "in short, I need you to help me defeat Lord Voldemort."

**8:00 a.m.** – I don't know why I let him convince me to leave my apartment. It's too early in the morning for this—I've had to cast a spell on my quill to even keep writing. Good God, it's early. It's too early… but when Harry just delicately places the fate of the world in your hands, you're supposed to _do _something about it, right? CRAP. I hate this. Whatever—I've come to terms with the fact that this Voldie thing is never going to be over. Last year, he shrunk back into laying low and we were all comfortable with that—I've been comfortable with that for the past forever! But Harry? Noooo… Harry has to go save the world, now doesn't he—and saving the world starts with sitting on my bed.

Actually, my comforter is all nice and rumpled from where he was sitting—I think it looks darling in the lamplight—but, ahem, that's not the issue at stake here, of course.

"What exactly do you propose we do?" I ask. We're darting down the streets of London now, under the cover of… well, daylight… and all Harry's told me is that it's absolutely essential that I go along with him. "And why me?"

"Because you're a professional," Harry says, darting into a corner and further down into an alleyway, dragging me along with him. He is killing me, because dark corners make me think we're going to commit some sort of felony, which is going to make me, inevitably, sweaty and disgusting. And my own disgustingness in the presence of Harry—the one and only amazing Harry—is going to make me suicidal.

"A professional at _what?_" I ask, sure that I have no skills besides being awkward and losing towels, which I am very good at and should be on my résumé.

"ASP," he smiles. It seems like that moment in _My Fair Lady_ where Eliza announces that she'll become a teacher and teach phonetics—a very full-circle type thing, that ASP might actually be useful, except that I don't feel very much like a Henry Higgins type professor, or a professor at all really. I still feel like for all that time I was just a bumbling assistant.

"What, Harry? Are you just going to make out with the Dark Lord until he dies?"

"Of course not," Harry replies, looking at me incredulously as the dark alleyway seems to become even darker and his eyes seem to become just a shade greener. He takes my hand and pulls me a tiny bit closer. "Fleur, if I don't see you after this—I mean, if something goes… wrong—"

**9:00 a.m. – **I couldn't help it—with him speaking of such things, of that amount of finality, how could I _not_ have kissed him? Of course, I proceeded to ruin the moment and make things, as Jacques would say, "awkward" afterwards by adding, "Oh, crap—I'm never going to survive seeing Hermione again."

"Oh, we're on a break," Harry replied nonchalantly.

_God. The poor boy doesn't know anything._ "Oh, Harry, being on a break does _not_ mean that you're on a break—Ross thought he and Rachel were on a break—they were _not_ on a break," I explained. "Everything that happens when you're on a break still counts when you're not on a break, and maybe a little bit more."

"Who are Ross and Rachel?" Harry asked. It was only then that I realized that in order to watch _Friends_, one must be a) in America and b) a Muggle. I don't think my de-Americanization / de-Mugglefication has worked out very well. I actually think I'm doing very poorly.

"It doesn't matter," I said, "because you're _not_ on a break. You're still _living_ with her, for God's sake." At least when Ross and Rachel were on a break, I'm pretty sure they _weren't_ living together—if one doesn't even have the decency to move out, it's definitely not a break. It's a spat—it's a cutesy little lover's spat, the kind they report on in _The Snitch Report_, knowing that the couple will be back together in five seconds and will be taking day-trips to the Hamptons again. I mean, God, could anyone tell they're on a break?

"No, I'm not actually—she's staying with Ron for a few days, I mean, until we work the whole thing out," he said.

_Until we work the whole thing out?_ Well, if he's expecting to get back together with her, then he should keep his (saucy expert of a) tongue to himself! I made a disgruntled noise.

"What?" he asked, being the sort of boy who picks up on disgruntled noises, which is a helpful trait when you're constantly breaking women's hearts, as teen heart-throbs tend to do. Does the word heart-throb remind you of nineties references to Julio Iglesias, or is that only me?

"Well," I said in a disgruntled fashion, "if you're all planning on working the whole thing out—" I looked down briefly. "Well, then what is all of this?"

"All of what?"

"All of this!" I abruptly pushed him away. "I mean, I can't turn around without you there at the bookstore or walking down the hall or in my apartment with no _towel _on or in a bloody alleyway, and you think that's okay! I tried to tell you this morning—you always get me into trouble, Harry. I… I won't be strung along."

I felt very feminist at saying that; it's what Agatha Firebrick would do. And afterwards, she would slap the (deliciously sexy) cad in the face, turn around and strut sexily back to her apartment, cut her hair, buy new clothes, spritz on Madame Matilda's Magical Mesmerizing Love Perfume, and go out on the town as an Independent Woman. However, I have to save the world with this deliciously sexy cad, so I'll have to slap him afterwards. Further however, by the time we've save the world, I'll be on a high of "oh how wonderfully hot superheroes are" and he'll have a shot at seducing me all over again! _Mon dieu_, sex appeal _is_ a weapon.

"I'm not trying to string you along, Fleur," he said.

"Then you're stringing _one_ of us along, Harry—I mean, it's Hermione… Hermione or…me. That's what I'm trying to say: Hermione or me."

Why, how _Meredith Grey_ of me.

"Fleur, we have to get going—I haven't even fully explained the plan to you, and time is running out—our window could slip away and then when's the next time we'll have to rid the world of Lord Voldemort? We'll have to—"

"Hermione or me, Harry—it's a one word answer, one _syllable_—if you're smart."

"You. Now can we get going—I'm stopping over at Diagon Alley to pick up something, and after that we're going to have to make a mad dash to… well, I can't tell you here, but after that—"

"You said me," I whispered.

"Well, yes, I know."

I beamed. "You said _me_!"

Harry blushed and took a quick glance at his watch. I'm absolutely positive he thought I was insane. "Yes—yes, of course," he smiled. "Now, really—we have to go."

I nodded wordlessly as I let him lead the way to Diagon Alley, very happily deciding that I wanted a rose bouquet for our wedding.

**Day One-Seventy-Five of Free Independence**

**Thursday, July 23rd, 2005**

**Sworn to Secrecy**

**7:00 AM**

**7:00 a.m. **–All right, well, I'm really not allowed to say much because Harry doesn't want, you know, my possessions to get stolen by the press and then the have everyone freaking out over the full-scale rundown of last week's events, but I'm pretty sure that I can give you the details on the part of what happened that had nothing to do with Lord Voldemort and everything to do with me and Harry.

Okay. So after the incident in the alleyway, we made our way to Diagon Alley, where Harry picked up what can only be referred to as Item XXX and his broomstick, which he was having stored there immediately after the whole "surprise towel scene" fight with Hermione, because he was absolutely sure she was going to smash it over his head or something. I was not paying attention to anything, but rather, wondering what my wedding dress would look like. Harry kept telling me to focus—which of course led to me focusing on how hot Harry is. And, you know, the fact that he picked me. I'm beaming! But anyway, after picking up his Firebolt and Item XXX, Harry and I magically squeezed onto his broomstick and flew for several hours until we reached a location that can only be referred to as Location XYZ, by which time my hands were numb and I couldn't even extract pleasure from the reality of holding onto Harry for several hours. During this broom ride, Harry explained to me the details, many of which will have to be blotted out for the sake of national security:

"Okay, Fleur—we're headed to Location XYZ, where we will rendezvous with Person A. Person A has waiting for me Item YYY, and a slip of paper that has written on it ———- **deletion** ——— for you, which should be self-explanatory, but there are directions on the back—I mean, I trust you, Fleur. At Location XYZ, the ASP comes into play—I will be underneath my invisibility cloak, and I will need you to ASP your way past the guards. At this point, you must———- **deletion** ——— in order to ———- **deletion** ———. By ———- **deletion** ——— you will have enabled us to ———- **deletion** ———, which allows us to perform ———- **deletion** ——— on Lord Voldemort, which results in ———- **deletion** ———. Then, all we have to do is follow the instructions on Person A's slip of paper in conjunction with the detonation of Item YYY and the destruction of Item XXX, and… well, we've saved the world. After which, we have to evacuate the premises immediately."

Apparently, Harry has been working on this plan for a very, _very_ long time.

We spent the rest of the broom ride reviewing the above information (without the deletions, of course) and shivering. Upon reaching Location XYZ, rendezvousing with Person A, picking up Item YYY, safely concealing Item XXX, and reading the given information, it was time for my role in the operation. Because I am forbidden to use names and probably will forget them all in two days' time, I will refer to everyone by their assigned serial numbers. With a swift _Alohomora_, I gained entry to the Premises XYZ, made my way through (how to be vague about this…) _several _rooms. I waited on the… seating apparatus in one of these rooms, and applied a little magically enhanced lipstick and perfume—wink, wink. At which point, several, er, morally disinclined wizards filed by, did a double take, and then all entered the room. The general consensus in the room was, "Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing here?" That was DE06583, but then, he's always been suspicious—ever since he had his foot blown off in a freak squirrel accident.

I sighed inwardly at the thought and then said what I needed to say. In my sluttiest voice with my heaviest accent I said: "Someone called for some… female entertainment?"

"Ah," remarked a certain DE19403, who cannot be named, but let's just say I taught his dimwit child potions for like two months. Funny thing is—after I said this, nobody even asked me who had called. Nobody asked me anything as a matter of fact—except if I could put my legs behind my head, oddly. So I smiled and said, "Could somebody lead the way to the… dungeon?"

In the dungeon, followed by a small staff of guards, I requested that I reapply my perfume, to which they agreed wholeheartedly—well, until they stopped nodding and passed out. Harry was just about to whip off his Invisibility Cloak and let me out of the dungeon when, who waltzed in but… am I allowed to break name protocol? Because this is just too juicy. _Lucius Malfoy_. Harry quickly crouched in the corner and I tried not to wince as the Illustrious Mr. Malfoy joined me in the dark, dank dungeon.

"I heard there was… a little female entertainment present?"

_Oh, is that what you said in your porno?_

_Like father, like son. _I nodded and prayed that Harry was ready to club him over the head, or at least break his nose. However, I had to wait until Lucius Malfoy had his tongue in my mouth for Harry to do a thing. While Mr. Malfoy was kissing my neck, I was viciously mouthing in what I hoped was Harry's direction: "What are you doing! Get me out of here!" For those agonizing minutes, I remembered what my mother had once told me: "Just close your eyes and think of England—and how much France is better."

So I did. And after seven minutes of hell, Lucius Malfoy was surprised by a) the knee that he got in the groin, b) the swift kick he got in the shins, and c) the head-butt he got in the stomach _à la_ a certain French soccer captain. Oh yeah, because French girls do it better, _mais oui?_ I reapplied my killer lipstick, and gave him a final kiss on the lips that sent him into unconsciousness. "Now let me out of here!"

I had to tap my foot impatiently for over a minute before the door swung open and Harry appeared. "Sorry," he said—"I was taking care of the rest of the guards—and retrieving other information."

"What sort of—?"

"Shh," he whispered. Then he took me by the hand, led me away, and the rest—well, I'd tell you… but then I'd have to kill you.

**9:05 a.m.** – Jacques is in a state of shock and awe at my sheer wonderfulness. "What I still don't understand," he says, making breakfast, "is how you managed to sneak out of the house at five a.m. without me noticing!"

Right, Jacques, because that's _really_ the impressive part of this story. Actually, I think the really impressive part of the story is that Jacques knows how to make eggs Benedict. That is marvelous! But wait a minute—why is he a better cook than I am? Jacques always makes me question my adequacy; I think he's just generally bad for my self-esteem, you know, with his brilliant wonderfulness.

"Don't be too hard on yourself—even the best of guards have to sleep sometime. There's only one of you," I point out.

"True," he says, flipping the ridiculous/delicious concoction he has in the frying pan over. "I should have known you'd get back in the papers. Dangerous enough for you?" he asks, throwing me a glance over his shoulder.

"Why yes, actually!" I haven't thought about this on a level of dangerousness before! How lovely! "I've actually done something dangerous! Yay! We should go out and celebrate—we can go to dinner, someplace fancy and famous—or maybe someplace out of the way so we won't be plagued by paparazzi—oh, who cares: I'm dangerous! I've done something _dangerous!"_

Jacques laughs to himself and flips the eggs Benedict out of the frying pan and onto a plate. I wonder if he ever wonders what a sensible person like him is doing living with a nonsensical (world-saving!) person like me? "Yeah sure," he says, "let's go out to dinner."

"Ooh, I have an even better idea!" How impressive of me. "Let's have a party!"

**12 NOON –** Parties are very complicated affairs. But not as complicated as affairs. Affairs are _really_ complicated affairs. But I'm not having an affair, so that's… none of my affair. Anyway, I have no idea how to plan a party. At Beauxbatons, we were never allowed to have parties; we had formals instead, and then afterwards, simply the really _devoted_ bad-asses would throw parties. I'd attend them, but never throw them. Renée was always the party-thrower in the family. Of course, Renée was always also the tantrum-thrower and the knife-thrower too.

Anyway, how does one have a party? There should be a book on it. I would go to Flourish & Blotts to scan the reference section for it, but then, Harry might show up there again and—oh my. I have just realized: there is nothing to worry about! I can meet Harry at the bookstore if I want! I am a single girl, he is a single boy, and he picked _me! _I think I shall step out and buy a book on parties, and then promptly invite him both to the now-hypothetical party and to some Reference Section snogging.

Jacques is now inquiring as to why I look so happy. "Well… no. Never mind," I say, v. mysteriously, which must be _très pénible pour pauvre Jacques, _who is constantly asking me questions that I refuse to answer without a lawyer present. "Actually—" I draw breath very sharply and dramatically. "No… no. A—no._ No_. Never mind."

"Every time you do that," Jacques says, "you _know_ I want to kill you. You _know_ I do, so why do you do it? Tell me what you did."

"I haven't done anything," I say, gracefully putting on my halo. "I haven't done a single thing all day except read the papers and drink tea. I'm innocent. And I plead the fifth."

"The American Constitution applies only in America," says Jacques in a way that proves he was a tutor, "and anyway, I know you've done _something_, so don't try to hide it. I'll figure it out…. It's Harry, isn't it? You've done something with Harry again, but you don't want me to know," he says. Jacques is ever so intuitive when he's making me a sandwich in that trembling way of his. Sort of hesitant, as if: I am not really sure I _want_ to put this provolone cheese on top of this roast beef.

"I haven't done anything," I say, resolutely. "I am an _angel_."

"Harry. Harry and… and your whole saving the world thing. Something happened after you mysteriously snuck out of here at five a.m., magically without me noticing and dragging you back through the door, didn't it? Don't deny it, because I know it's true." When he sounds so self-assured (with the wheat bread and white bread in hand like the scales of justice), it's very hard to lie.

"He picked me!" I screech. Well, no. I squeal.

"For what?"

"_Me_. I mean, I was so shocked—what do you _mean, _for what? For… for _love_!" I think Jacques's inquiry of _for what_ is making me happier, because I never asked myself for what, and the answer is lovely. I start giggling and Jacques is looking at me in disgust.

"Oh stop," he says.

I can only continue giggling. "Love," I repeat stupidly.

"Oh, God, Fleur, _please_ stop," he repeats, passing me a sandwich and a knife so that I can cut the crusts off because inside I am four years old. He looks at me and sandwich skeptically before saying: "God help me, Fleur, if you cut that effing thing into an effing heart, I'm going to effing kill you."

"Then you better effing leave," I giggle.

"If I left you, you'd probably go stare at his comforter rumple and not eat all day. I don't want to be responsible for your starvation," Jacques says, still seeming rather disgusted by my behavior.

"How do you know about my rumple?" I ask.

"I saw you kissing it this morning."

"Well, oh."

**2:00 p.m. – **"Jacques!" I tore through the apartment in a rage, feeling very _hell-bent_, very _Regina George_ in _Mean Girls_ ripping through her house after Cady's party. "JACQUES!" Finally he was found, sitting reading the _Prophet_, as if he hadn't done anything at all, as if he hadn't ruined an entire week of sleeping on the floor on some blankets.

"JACQUES!"

"Yes?"

"YOU STRAIGHTENED MY RUMPLE!"

**5:00 p.m.** – "You can't still _not_ be speaking to me—it's a little wrinkle! How can you be mad at me over a _wrinkle_? We can survive the time you burned off my eyebrows, but we can't survive something that _ironing_ usually deals with?"

"It's _not_ a wrinkle," I said, crossing my arms defensively. "It was a rumple. And it was mine and Harry's, and it was beautiful."

"You're acting like you had a _baby_, and I _straightened_ it," said Jacques, speaking to my back since I was refusing to look at his rumple-straightening face.

"If a baby is a simply a product of love, then yes—Harry and I _had_ a baby, _and_ you straightened it!" I declared, whirling around for a split second before returning to my comfortable state of staring out the picture window angrily while Jacques made desperate attempts to soothe my temper.

"And tell me, what was giving birth like?" Jacques asked.

"It was—" And then I realized that I'd turned around and started to speak before I'd thought about his question, and that he'd caught me standing there actually looking at him, about to answer a ridiculous query. "You're horrible and I hate you."

"But do you love me?" he asked, raising an endearing, once-burned-off eyebrow and _rumpling_ his brow.

"Yes, of course," I said. "Now, let's go have tea."

"Lovely," Jacques said, kissing my nose. "We can make loads of rumples later."

I giggled.

Jacques smiled. "Oh, not that again."

**7:00 p.m.** – Jacques and I were sitting on the bed, drinking tea, when I said, "Oh, I know—I'll have the party on Harry's birthday! He'll be delighted—I'm sure he's never really had a proper birthday. And we can celebrate our victory at the same time too!"

Jacques slipped a little off the bed, creating his own rumple. "Will you though?" he asked, clutching his teacup.

"Yes!" I exclaimed. "If only I knew how to plan a party—or who to invite at all. Nobody who should be there likes me at all; Hermione, Ron… oh, I don't know all of Harry's friends." The idea sank from my mind. "I can't throw him a party—I wouldn't know what to do."

"Then talk to someone who does know what to do," Jacques suggested, kneeling at the side of the bed over his rumple.

"But I don't—" Then it struck me that I did know someone who knew what to do. "But not Hermione, Jacques, I couldn't." Jacques shook his head, shaking his tea, and coming dangerously close to spilling green tea on my bedspread. "Oh… _oh…_ Ron. But—"

"The most you have to fear from Ron is that he might faint on you," asserted Jacques. "Besides, he'll tell you anything you want to know. And things you don't."

"I hate your ideas," I said, sipping my chamomile. "They're always so correct and unpleasant. Why can't you ever have frivolous ideas that are nice to think about?"

"Well, that would just be like living with yourself, now wouldn't it?" Jacques said.

**9:00 p.m.** – Affolé d'Affaires Courant

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 120! Because life-saving and world-saving means that the pounds melt off _instantly!_

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: I am in bliss! Because no more unrequited lust for me! _No!_ I've got a baby—I mean, _rumple_—and a pseudo-boyfriend, who is probably soon going to become a _real_ boyfriend, and that _real_ boyfriend will be Harry!

Cyber-boyfriend: This category _must_ be deleted.

Pilates Minutes: Ha! World-saving is so much _better_ than Pilates.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 990. Couldn't help it—I kept on thinking, very incessantly, about how _Pirates_-like the entire thing was, sweeping into enemy headquarters, but with a plan, and with a hot, hot boy… I'm sure it must have been like Keira Knightley's own enviable experience on the set of _Pirates of the Caribbean. _Only, she got two adorable boys instead of just one. Frown. Well—number six of my New Year's Resolutions was to not compare life to that of Keira Knightley and become a jealous basket-case.

Jude-thinking Minutes: Yum. He is delicious. But I don't think he'd be there with me while I was saving the world. I think he'd park the car round the back and wait outside.

JRM-thinking Minutes: Well, he'd go all Mission Impossible 3 on me and fly a plane to aid me in my world-saving quest. And then, of course, he'd put the plane on cruise control so we could make out in the cargo hold. Or… anywhere is fine. Not that I'm _partial_ to the cargo hold or anything—or have been there at all!

Jules-thinking minutes: Well, as I rolled into Location XYZ, all ready to save the world, of course _Juicebox_ was playing in my head.

HP-thinking Minutes: 1,450. He's my pseudo-boyfriend, my pseudo-pseudo boyfriend! My boyfriend! My boyfriend! My pseudo-pseudo boyfriend! Su-Su-Pseudo!

HG glares: None! Because I have not had to wander outside of my apartment to see Harry, because he has come to me, proof that I am not demeaning myself by running after him in a slutty, un-feminist manner.

Odd Slytherin, Draco Malfoy winks: Forget the son—it's the father I'm getting a restraining order against.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 1 to 3.

Overall Day: Quite lovely, with tea and reconciliations and rumples. And pseudo-boyfriends.

**Day One-Seventy-Seven of Free Independence**

**Saturday, July 25th, 2005**

**On the Way to an Interview**

**8:00 AM**

**8:00 a.m. **–Quite ridiculously received word by owl yesterday that _The Daily Prophet_ would like to interview me on my part in defeating Lord Voldemort. Harry has just stopped over to remind me not to _really_ answer any questions. I am supposed to be like a politician, and leave the interviewer _feeling_ like they just conducted an interview, but not having left with any information at all.

And then he invited me to have lunch with him "and other things," but unfortunately I had to decline, because how am I supposed to plan Harry's birthday party! Will have to find a way to rendezvous with Ron without running into Hermione—that girl still scares the hell out of me. I really do wish I could go over though—not even for the lunch, just for the "other things!"

**9:00 a.m.** – Sitting in _Daily Prophet_ office, waiting for my interviewer, picking the dirt out from under my nails and humming.

**9:15 a.m. – **I am beginning to think that at any moment, Ashton Kutcher is going to pop out from behind that desk and say, "You've just been _punk'd!"_

**9:30 – **Oh, dear. Someone's coming. I probably ought to try and be respectable now. If only I could remember how to do that… damn my lazy summer tendencies!

**4:10 p.m.** – Interview was bloody horrible. I think I would have rather been the victim of a cruel prank on a horrible, overrated reality television show than do that interview. Was horrid. Was humming in an annoying and nervous fashion, waiting for the interviewer to finally walk through the door, anticipating, etc. Heard horrid clacking of shoes on the floor, was beginning to bite furiously on nails, when in waltzed none other than Rita Skeeter.

Let's recount what I have against Rita Skeeter, shall we? Well, there's only every time she ever insinuated that I was _obsessed_ _with_ Harry, _sleeping with _Harry, or simply a bumbling idiot who has no idea what she's doing. But other than that, you could call us _best_ friends.

"Why, hello," she said, all poisonously, and acting as if she hadn't slandered my name and that we were bridge partners or something. "Well, let's get started." She was very chipper, but I think she was disappointed that she couldn't get Harry to come down. "So, Fleur _Delacour_… what exactly _was_ your role in defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

_Ridiculously_ long name for someone we're not talking about. I thought about her question for a while, and probably in a way that made her think I was incredibly dull. "Well, I wasn't in the plan from the beginning. I mean, I wasn't really _aware _that anything was going to be happening until _very, very_ recently, but I suppose that was part of the plan and that it was better that way, since secrecy is key," I said. I was proud of myself for not giving much away, really.

"Right," said Rita Skeeter, nodding her irrepressibly annoying head filled with lies. "So, no one really knows much about what happened that night—a little more than a week ago. Can you shed some light on what _really_ occurred?"

I did my best to smile graciously when filled with spite. "I'm afraid that it would be against the wizarding world's best interests for me to talk about it now. But I will say that the plan went very successfully, and that everyone should be feeling a little safer."

Rita made a discontented sound. "This has been quite a year for you," she said. "As a matter of fact, I think it would be safe to say that you've been _rocketed_ to fame. Though, of course, sometimes not in the most reputable of ways. What do you have to say about your experiences in the public eye this year?"

I blanched. "I don't… I don't know what you mean."

"Well," she said, "since early May, several reports have linked you with one of the most famous and important young wizards of our time—Harry Potter. You were originally… _why_, his _schoolteacher_, and—"

"Actually, I was just an assistant," I interjected.

"Well, yes. You _were_ 'just an assistant,' but nevertheless, some incredibly revealing shots of you surfaced, wearing—"

"Those weren't his boxers—they were just very similar—the pattern—the pattern's gotten so popular," I said, my hands sweating profusely. "And anyway, aren't I supposed to be talking to you about what's happened recently, in regards to Lord Voldemort's defeat? Isn't that what we're supposed to be talking about?"

"I think you've already made it very clear that we will not be dragging any more information out of you on _that_ subject," she said, smiling at her horrible Quick-Quotes Quill. "I'm simply trying to give a little background information." I finally realized that this wasn't an interview about Lord Voldemort—this was just a chance to have the _Shamrocks Scandal_ interview they'd never had. "You were the Beauxbatons Champion for the Triwizard Tournament. How did it feel being the _only_ female contestant—and, sadly, coming in last place?"

"Oh! Well—"

"Were there any sparks between you and the other three _male _contestants?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, and not endearingly in the least.

"What are you insinuating?" I exclaimed, ready to grab my purse and bolt out the door.

"Was this first where the romance between you and Harry Potter started?" she asked. "Before you say anything, bear in mind all the evidence that has come to light in the past few months concerning the relationship between yourself and Harry Potter. The photos of you wearing undergarments that looked alarmingly similar to the undergarments of Mr. Potter's that went missing mysteriously a month before; you were Mr. Potter's _date_ to a prestigious ceremony where he was awarded a lifetime achievement award, something he would share _only_ with those he was _very_ close to; you're living in the same apartment complex, aren't you, Ms. Delacour?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"And now, Harry Potter has at last defeated Lord Voldemort, but not with his _girlfriend_, Hermione Granger, at his side, but _you_, Ms. Delacour. How do you explain that?"

I gulped. "They're on a break…" I muttered meekly, sinking into my chair. I wasn't ready for this yet—and I wasn't supposed to give anything away… "Harry and Hermione are on a break, and nothing's going on," I repeated.

"A break, you say?" she said, somehow telepathically willing that demonic quill to write even faster. She smiled an acid smile as a small, brown-haired assistant scurried into the room, handing Rita a small file. "If you would take a look at this," Rita said, handing the file to me.

I was having the strongest sense of _déjà vu._ I winced and reluctantly opened the file to find… oh God. The paparazzi are like insects, everywhere, including in dark alleyways where one is kissing the Boy Who Lived. I looked up. I didn't know what to say. "I have to go."

"Really? How unfortunate. Do grab a gift bag on the way out."

**5:55 p.m. – **Jacques is trying to be comforting. "I'm sure you didn't say anything too incriminating—give yourself a break."

"_Don't say the word break!"_ I shouted, burying my head under a pillow, and wondering how much retail therapy it would take to cure me of my current state of horror. "I mean, I was supposed to talk about the Victory—I mean, I wasn't even _really_ supposed to talk about that—I was supposed to talk _vaguely_ about it in an unhelpful fashion for an hour—but then I let her drag me into talking about—about—things like… like the Shamrocks again, and she had these horrible pictures—"

"What pictures?"

"Pictures of me… and _Harry_… _kissing…_"

"_Jesus_, Fleur," Jacques said, dropping down onto the couch beside me. "At what point in time during the whole saving the world thing did you and Harry Potter have a chance to make out?"

"Hey! I thought he was going to _die_! I mean, it's the whole _last moments on Earth_ thing—I mean, wouldn't you—if you were—if…"

"Yes."

"Exactly!" I took an ice cube from the bowl immediately to my left and popped it into my mouth. "I mean," I began, my words slightly muffled, "where do they get these pictures anyway? Do they just crawl out of the trashcans with their cameras, with their Harry-radar, looking for some scandal? I mean, I didn't see anything at the time!"

"Might that be because your eyes were closed?" asked Jacques.

"Oh, shut up," I said, crunching on the ice cube in despair—Jacques's correctness can be incredibly upsetting. "It's absolutely obscene that I can't do anything or even be _around_ Harry without a photograph being taken, and as if Harry and I are really the important part of all this, I mean, why can't anyone—?"

"Hey, why wouldn't you want anyone to know about you and Harry? Harry and Hermione are on a break, and it's not as if you and Harry have been having a torrid affair, or something." Silence. "Right? _Right? RIGHT?_"

"_No_, we weren't having an _affair_… per _se…_"

"Per se? Dear God, you _were_ having a torrid affair! You _were!_ You think you know somebody!" exclaimed Jacques, staggering around the apartment like someone had shot him in the stomach.

"Per se does not equal 'yes, we made passionate love over by the dictionaries in the reference section!'" I replied, because where I take things too literally, Jacques is a voracious "in between the lines" reader—and he sometimes reads things in between the lines that aren't there.

"Why the dictionaries? Dear God, you ran into him at Flourish & Blotts, didn't you? You have to tell me these things!"

"So you can shoot yourself and bleed on my carpet?"

"_No_, so I can _chastise_ you and then fully understand what's going on when you are dragged in for a magazine interview and come back with a severe need for a cold compress. By the way, I am not getting you a cold compress until you give full disclosure," Jacques insisted. And I really needed that cold compress.

"But Jacques…" I said, preparing for full suck-up mode.

"Don't tell me you love me, tell me the truth."

"Bah-humbug; you're all so _serious_, blah," I said, retreating backwards on the couch. "Fine. Where shall I begin the sordid details? All the way back at ASP, or shall I begin with the Cardboard Box Massacre and work forward from _there_?" Jacques nodded at the ASP option so I sighed and began. "Okay, this is the fast version, and if you don't understand a word I'm saying, that is not my fault. I have intense party-planning to do, and I need to get this over with so I can recover with a cold compress and get to it. Okay—ASP equals crackling sexual tension. Mostly on my part. Michael jets away to deal with House Elves in Egypt, I am caught wearing Lucky, Lucky Shamrocks—not so lucky for me, as you know. So then, all alone in ASP, I am forced to explain myself. This leads to some inexplicable kissing. Which led to some 'Oh dear, what about your girlfriend?' asking. Which led to some awkward staring. So I offered to help him out on the Hermione front, which _inexplicably and unforeseeably_ led to some serious kissing. And then the got invited to the award ceremony thingy, and needed someone to go with him, and he and Hermione were sort of on the skids, so he asked me, and we went, and we were seated next to the chocolate fountain and the lighting was so nice—"

"Seductive lighting, my God."

"It was! It was! There was _very_ nice lighting! So, one thing led to another behind the chocolate fountain—don't look appalled, it was only kissing—then Michael asked me to move in with him, and I didn't know what to say! I mean, I couldn't be _mean_ to him and say _no_ after I'd just cheated on him with his _student_, so I said yes, and then I came out here and there was Harry, _here_ for no apparent reason! It was nerve-wracking—you can only imagine the turmoil I went through trying to find a sensible solution to this situation, Jacques, and I was so methodical—I made lists and everything; you would have been so proud. But then, I was trying to really immerse myself in my relationship with Michael and I was trying to look seductive over breakfast in my Oxford shirt and everything, and then Michael was asking all these questions about ASP while he was gone and I got flustered and said I'd go ask Harry about it—but I wasn't wearing _pants_, for God's sake! And I was standing in Harry's flat wearing nothing but a shirt, feeling like a slut—"

"You're not a slut," Jacques says reassuringly, "you just have incredibly bad judgement."

"And then Hermione was telepathically stabbing me in the eye with a fork, and I was feeling rather bad about the whole thing, especially when Harry saved me from a Draco attack and we were having tea and The Great Hermione walked in and looked scandalized, so then I went out to dinner with Michael and he called me _safe_ for crying out loud! I was hurt! So I called you, and you came over… and then I was looking for books on how to be dangerous in Flourish & Blotts and Harry was there and I had the hiccups and we ended up in his apartment, and… oh, you know what I'm going to say!"

"There was some serious kissing," Jacques said, deadpan.

"Exactly, and every single time, it was like 'kiss, kiss, kiss—oh no, this is a bad idea,' which is dumb as hell, because we never got anywhere… emotionally, spiritually, sexually, grammatically—in any way at all! But at the same time, we were both in other relationships, and we shouldn't have done anything because that wouldn't have been fair! And then there was that incident of my not wearing underwear, and then Michael and I broke up, and then Harry needed a towel because of the purloining scheme and then—"

"Okay. Whatever about the towels. I am almost sort of over the towels. Skip to the part where for some incomprehensible reason, dark alleyways are the new dinner and a movie," Jacques said, leaning forward slightly before getting up and perching on the arm of the couch. I think Jacques may be the only guy I know that actually perches.

"I _seriously_ thought he was going to die! So I kissed him, and then I remembered Hermione, and he told me it was okay because they were on a break. But the truth is that being on a break does _not_ mean you are on the sort of break you think you are, and I told him that I would not be strung along and that he needed to choose between me and Hermione, and he chose me! Hence the photo of the kissing in the alley."

"Gotcha." Pause. "I was just wondering though—would you mind selling your life story to a publisher? We could get millions for this sort of drama—"

"Shut up! I have a party to plan!" I said, leaping off the couch, falling back down, and begging for a cold compress.

**7:30 p.m. – **Knocking frantically on what I have figured out is Ron's door, waiting for him to answer it so he can help me out with the party planning guest list and such. However, am feeling more "towel-less outside apartment door" than "experienced party-planner."

**7:45 p.m. –** Ron seemed simultaneously excited and upset to see me. But maybe that was because Hermione was due to return home from wherever the hell it is she goes any second. It was all very strange. Blushing, he asked me, "What do _you_ want?" before blushing again.

"Well, I was wondering if you would help me—I'm trying to throw a party for Harry's birthday, and also kind of to celebrate the whole, Dark Lord victory thing," I said, feeling like a novice salesgirl as Ron wouldn't even let me into his apartment. "I just figured—since you and Harry are such good friends and everything and it's supposed to be a surprise, that—"

"Come in!" Ron said, his voice becoming suddenly squeaky before he cleared his throat and opened the door wide enough for me to step through. "Um, who do you want to invite?"

"I don't know. That's why I need help. I was thinking we'd just have it in his apartment, because it'd be pretty easy to get him there without his being suspicious, and we can always just temporarily enlarge the apartment—I know a spell for that," I suggested.

"Okay. Well, you'll want to start with… er…"

"Hermione—I know I should invite Hermione, Ron."

"Right, well then," Ron said nervously, "and then Fred and George and Ginny and Bill and Charlie and I guess Percy and probably my parents because they'll want to be there, and Dumbledore and McGonagall and Seamus and Neville," he started as I scribbled the names down on a napkin. "Oh, really, just all the Hogwarts staff—they've been like family to Harry—except Snape, _not Snape_. And Lupin—"

"Oh shoot."

"What?" Ron asked, looking up.

"Nothing." _He just thinks I'm insanely sexually attracted to him, that's all_. "Go on."

"Everyone in the Order of the Phoenix… everyone at Hogwarts, really, except the Slytherins, and all the house ghosts," he shuddered briefly, "except the Bloody Baron—or on second thought, invite him so he doesn't murder us all. And—you may need a bigger venue, actually."

"Umm… I'll see if I can get the hall they used for the Lifetime Achievement Ceremony, 137 Warwick Place, because that's a huge space, and I'm pretty sure they still have the chocolate fountain—we could start that up again!" I stopped suddenly. "You don't think this will be too big a party for Harry, do you? I mean, do you think he'll be uncomfortable?"

"I think as long as you don't abandon him in a sea of people he doesn't know, he'll be fine," Ron replied, looking at me for a fraction of a second before turning red and returning to his sheet of paper. He shoved a list in my direction. "Erm… now, Fleur, I am going to have to ask you to… er…"

"Leave?" I offered.

"Yes," he said, staring at his shoes in an embarrassed sort of way with the kind of intent that people usually reserve for staring contests.

"Thanks so much," I said as I sailed out the door, guest list in hand.

**Day One-Eighty-Three of Free Independence**

**Friday, July 31st, 2005 – Harry's Birthday**

**Being Excited!**

**9:00 AM**

**9:00 a.m. **–Ha! Am brilliant! Have done _everything_. _Je suis fantastique!_ I _can_ plan parties! I can! I haven't felt so proud of myself since… well, probably the whole defeat of Lord V. and all sorts of other classified information, etc. But anyway, what I've been doing the past six days:

Fleur's Party Planning Activities as of Late

1) Called Warwick Place Hall, got it reserved from 8 o'clock in the evening to 1 o'clock in the morning, and they don't seem to remember me as that Underwear Scandal girl, thank God.

2) Arranged for a company to cater the party—will be Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans everywhere and a chocolate fountain and a buffet for those who don't get a chance to eat dinner before coming. There will be wait staff and bartenders and alcohol, so of course this will be a crazy party.

3) AAAHH! You won't believe me! I managed to get the Weird Sisters _and_ Celestina Warbeck to come and perform for the party—it's amazing what happens when you're throwing a party for a guy who saves the world repeatedly, because you can get whatever you want. Especially when all of these people _obviously_ have a crush on him.

4) Sent out around 400 invitations, which were all done completely magically (because I'm lazy) but look as if they were done expertly by hand.

5) Invited Harry out to dinner tonight, saying that I had something urgent to speak to him about or something or other, but will really blindfold him and Apparate to Warwick Place.

**12 NOON – **"Ooh, Jacques! This is going to be fantastic! _Everyone_ is going to be at this party! Top ministry officials, pop stars, headmasters, _fellow _English tutors! We're all going to have so much fun!" I shout happily.

"You're on a party-planning high, so I will forgive the shouting," Jacques replied.

"YIPPEEEE!"

**4:27 p.m. – **I can't eat. I'm too excited. All I want to do is party, frankly—with Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters and all sorts of fantastic people, including the Boy Who Lived (to Pick Me)!

**5:00 p.m.** – "Calm down! It's just a party!" Jacques is saying, but we both know that this is a horrendous lie, and that _this_ is not just a party. It is _the _party of the century and I'm actually going to it, and better off, I'm actually throwing it. Life is good, but Michael is going to be so pissed at himself that he's not coming to this party.

**7:00 p.m.** – Will have to show up a little early to make sure everything's going off without a hitch, and then will have to double back to meet Harry for dinner at 7:45. Ooh, I'm so excited! I'm _dying_ of excitement!

Will probably be too busy partying madly to write anything, but will fill in the blanks of the party scene as soon as possible, which will probably be at two o'clock in the morning or something ridiculous like that.

Wish me luck!

**2:00 a.m.** – Never has there been such an eventful party. Of course, the press were at the windows and the doors trying to get in, taking fuzzy pictures through the frosted glass. It was amazing. The lights, the music, and—since all girls on diets do is think about _not_ being on a diet—the _food_. I'm positive everyone and their two closest friends must have showed up, because there must have been 600 wizards and witches, no kidding. I shook hands with ministry officials and talked to the actor who plays Halcius Pottotius on the stage. Plus, I _met_ the author of _Witches are from Mars, Men are Just Stupid_. I mean, seriously—_amazing_.

I met Harry outside his apartment at seven-forty-five precisely, which should have made him suspicious right away, because I am never punctual, but he didn't say a thing. We chatted and laughed and looked couple-y all the way to some random restaurant where I was like, "Close your eyes." "Why?" he asked, just as he was closing his eyes anyway, and in a matter of seconds we were at 137 Warwick Place.

The yell of "SURPRISE!" was nearly deafening, firstly because of the number of people and secondly because Celestina Warbeck yelled it into her microphone. Harry had a "Holy Crap" expression on his face. "You did all this?"

I nodded. "Yep. Happy birthday, Harry," I said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "You aren't mad are you?"

"Are you kidding me? I've never had a birthday like this before—this is—"

"Amazing?"

"Yeah," he replied, looking around. "Are those the—"

"Weird Sisters? Yes," I said, beaming. It felt like the world was silent, because everyone was waiting for the person the night was about to do something indicating that the wild partying could start. I motioned to the lead singer to toss me her microphone—she, unlike Celestina Warbeck, understands the art of turning the mike off first. I smiled at Harry before saying, to a room of expectant guests, "Let's get this party started," in the manner of Pink and the Black Eyed Peas.

It was _très magnifique_—though, I admit, I did get _un peu _drunk. How could you not? There was loud music and champagne—everyone was running around frantically and dancing madly—even Dumbledore was getting down, so why not the rest of us? Fred and George were setting off firecrackers every five seconds and downing Ogden's Old Firewhisky while McGonagall tried not to look amused while drinking gillywater. The whole night was insane, and the crazier it got, the more champagne I drank, which was a _lot_ of champagne.

"Are you having fun?" I laughed, skipping over to Harry and linking his arm in mine—when I'm way past tipsy and not quite drunk, I laugh. _A lot_.

"I suppose _I'll_ have to Apparate us back," Harry laughed as I pressed a champagne flute into his hand.

"Don't be so sober," I said jokingly in reply, watching happily as the Weird Sisters completed their second set and the loud cheering began. In response, Harry grabbed me and kissed me, confirming everyone's suspicions once and for all—or at least 600 of them. I could only grin hysterically—but I don't think that was the champagne. I'm pretty damn sure that was Harry.

"Nice job, mate!" Fred said, passing by with a lit firecracker and a potted plant, giving Harry a wink he thinks I didn't see.

"Hey, you know what?" Harry asked, seeming suddenly inspired.

"What?" I smiled. You know how when you're intoxicated, everyone looks slightly hotter? It's an unfortunate side effect of champagne, because I don't think Harry could afford to look any hotter.

"Come with me," he said. The Weird Sisters were taking a break and trotting down the stairs just as Harry and I were racing up them. "What are you doing?" I whispered at him, but he didn't reply, only continued upwards onto the stage.

"Ladies and gentleman," he began, clutching my hand. "Fleur," he said, turning and addressing me, "I would just like to say thank you so much for coming, and that I—"

My heart fell as I heard the front door shut and a very smart, bushy-haired girl say, in a voice that was almost meek—

"Happy birthday, Harry."

* * *

**A/N:** This is a crazy long chapter. :) Hope you enjoyed, kindly review, and I love all of you dearly. Oh my goodness, 200 reviews--that is so crazy; I appreciate it beyond belief. Will try and update soon!

Much love,

Femme Teriyaki

PS: Harry v. Jacques? What's this I hear?


	17. August: Draco Malfoy Needs a Nanny

**August:** Draco Malfoy Needs a Nanny

* * *

**Day One-Eighty-Four of Free Independence**

**Saturday, August 1st, 2005**

**Lying in a State of Sadness and Despair**

**6:45 AM**

**6:45 a.m. **–Despite the wonder of getting things for free because the birthday boy is hot and famous, parties still cost a lot of money. It's a wonder I didn't notice that before, because I have just received… oh, what did Jacques call it? _A bank statement_. And the statement is to the effect that I have no money and I ought to get some money soon or I shall be evicted and humiliated. Oh damn it, nothing goes off well.

And, to think nothing of my finances, _what was he going to say?_ I mean, last night! He was going to say something, make an important announcement, and he did that thing where he looked back at me, all warmly, as if to say, "Darling, I've been waiting a bit to say this, but I ought to say it now, so here goes…" and then that stupid twit walked in! WHY? _WHY?_ Why am I asking why when I know the reason why all too well! It's because it could never be right for me, not even just the once, at the cool party I was throwing.

Instead of continuing to make toffee-eyes at me, as he should have been doing, he dragged his gorgeous green eyes away to look at Hermione, standing in her angelic white dress in the doorway. How _like _her to be so clever! Not only does she draw the eyes of everyone on to her due to her late entrance (brilliant! I never made such a show stopping entrance!), but she's wearing the dress Renée would have wanted me to wear to the Lifetime Achievement Ceremony, the dress that says: "I am an innocent virgin, pure and clean of any wrongdoing, but I am also a beautiful angel who you want to take home to your mothers and marry and respect forever." All eyes zone in on her, linger—because she's looking ever so beautiful, like a maiden Marilyn Monroe—and then revert back to me, and _I_—in stark contrast—am wearing a slinky backless black dress that instead of saying "marry me and respect me forever," says "screw me, I'm easy." It is a dichotomy of good and evil, and now everyone sees it, and thinks, "How sweetly she said happy birthday, while that tramp on stage drapes herself around the Boy Who Lived and seduces him with champagne—so forgiving Hermione is, but you can tell she was hurt! That Fleur Delacour… I never would have trusted her…"

Harry looks at me, then looks at her, then looks at me, and we're the devil and angel on his shoulders. "Happy birthday, Harry—I'm Hermione, the true love of your life, your best friend. I've never done you wrong, or gotten you into trouble, or embarrassed you—all I've ever done is love you, Harry. I'm just asking you to love me back." Versus: "_Umm_…" And Harry does what any sane person would do. He says, "Excuse me," and then excuses himself out onto the balcony.

Only the problem with that is: when someone torn by the daggers and switchblades of love flees out into the night sky, someone is supposed to follow them to make sure they don't commit suicide or do something stupid. And which one of us is supposed to do that? I look at Hermione, and Hermione looks at me, and the other six-hundred people in the room are looking at us. So I get off the stage and head for the bathroom.

**8:15 a.m.** – "Obviously I wasn't the person who was supposed to go after him," I said. "I mean, Hermione went there to talk to him, and it would have only been appropriate for her to go after him and say something to the effect of, 'Harry, I came here tonight for one reason, etc.' and explain her reasons logically and morally in the way that she does. I mean, if I'd gone after him, what would I have said?"

As I am talking to a tea saucer, there is no reply. Jacques is out for some reason, I think probably visiting Janine, and they are probably shagging happily and smoking in bed and thinking, "Life is so beautiful—why do we need other people? Let's abandon Fleur and have chain-sex all year long!"

"Damn, damn, damn, damn…"

I don't really know what happened after I went to the bathroom, or at least what was going on during. I handed the mike back to Celestina Warbeck as I was getting off the stage, so I can only assume she sang and brought the crowd back to party mode. That would be the only consolation in this misery pie: that the party went off well. In the bathroom I scrutinized my dress, which I found had a champagne stain at the hem, and also that part of the back had been singed by a firecracker. Which really pissed me off, because I paid a lot for the dress, and a lot for the party, and I wasn't having a good time and even after Harry's picking of me it still felt like I had lost and Hermione had won. Why is it that whenever the French and the British do battle, the French lose? I hate history.

So, after downing the contents of a champagne flute like it was a Jell-o shot, I marched back out into the party resolutely, like a general marching back onto the battlefield, and was pleased to see everyone chatting amiably. I grabbed a waiter by the arm. "Excuse me, but could you point me in the direction of the rum, _s'il vous plaît?_" He pointed and I dashed happily over to the open bar. "Excuse me?" I said sweetly as the bartender turned around. "But you could give me something in Starbucks Venti size _filled_ with rum?"

"Star-what?"

"Do you happen to have a gallon of alcohol?"

"Umm… yes?"

"Okay, well then I'll have half a gallon now and half a gallon later, thank you," I said. However, instead of getting me a gallon of alcohol, he handed me a martini glass filled with club soda, patted me on the shoulder and said, "You'll be all right, sweetheart." It sickens me that bartenders feel sorry for me.

I dragged myself away from the bar and sat on the edge of the chocolate fountain, and sat there swinging my foot in the air until Harry reemerged from the darkness, looking distraught and confused, and… well, impossibly sexy. I got up and went over to him, and he took my hand and said, "Let me take you home," in a very serious way that was not at all comforting. And so he took me home, dropped me off at the door at 2 a.m. and didn't give me a kiss, not even on the cheek, as I was turning the key, and instead just walked down to room 16 and shut the door.

**10:00 a.m.** – Would Floo Jacques, really would, only I don't want to see any remnants of chain-sex at all.

**10:10 a.m.** – But maybe my aversion to BF-shag-TV is less important than my aversion to being very unhappy for the rest of my adult life.

**10:20 a.m.** – Why am I incapable of fixing my own problems? Why am I so completely incompetent at everything?

**10:30 a.m.** – Then again, at least Harry didn't go _home_ with Hermione.

**12 NOON – **But what if he spent all night _thinking_ about her? Isn't that so much worse? Beautiful Harry Potter climbs in between the sheets and… _will not think dirty thoughts!_ As I was saying, beautiful Harry Potter climbs in between the sheets and finds he can't stop thinking of his ex-girlfriend—_no_, not even his ex-girlfriend! His girlfriend he is taking a mini-freaking-_break_ from! Who he could easily run back to as she clearly wants him back! He thinks, "Maybe things would be simpler if I were with Hermione…" In his confusion he must make a pro/con list. Pro/con list equals that I lose woefully. Harry Potter drags himself out of bed at two in the afternoon the next day with bed-head and a newfound clarity to knock on his meaningless fling's door, to say: "I'm so sorry, but I've decided…"

**1:00 p.m.** – Whimpering pathetically in bed with another club soda martini, having realized that drinking is not the answer, but rather lying in denial on a soft comforter is. Misssserable!

Why is screwing annoying ex-best-friends of one's current best friend more important that comforting said current best friend? Why isn't Jacques here?

Perhaps will Floo…

No. Am being an independent creature, not a creature of groveling codependency and lack of spine, vertebrae, entire skeletal structure, etc.

**1:30 p.m.** – Have no money. Will get kicked out of apartment. Will have no bed to lie in and no fridge to cool club soda martinis! Will have no fireplace to Floo from! More so: will be homeless and will have no life!

**2:00 p.m. –** Frantically reading papers. Will get job, thus making myself glamorously busy, so when people knock on my door, I will not be there, and they will _have_ to appreciate me all the more because of my lack of presence. However, job must be new and amazing, as I cannot go back to Hogwarts and work in such close proximity to Snape and Michael. Further however, have basically no job experience, so cannot leap into high-powered ministry job right away, and alternatively must work my way up the scummy job ladder. And the scummy job ladder for the under-experienced starts on ground level, which means I must be paying a visit to the Agency for the Advancement of Veela in the Workplace.

Hmm, I am a quarter Veela, so it counts. Though I have not yet expressed the ability to seduce men at the drop of a hat. That's Renee's gift.

**4:15 p.m.** – Have actually ventured out of bed to take a shower and paint my nails, etc. to maintain the appearance of being somewhat physically attractive. Imagine if I wandered into the Agency only to have them look me up and down and say, "OUT," in the manner of Nazi headmistresses… would die of shame and crawl underneath a rock to live and not pay taxes.

**6:30 p.m. **– Was quite an impressive atmosphere; busy beautiful people busy being beautiful everywhere. Lots of chatter, but not petty gossiping chatter (which I create everywhere I go)—but rather: productive chatter, the like of which you would hear in offices with cubicles and swivel chairs. No sooner had I looked around in stunned wonder, than a tall, impossibly thin _model_/_goddess_ appeared before me. "You must be new to the Agency," she said expertly, handing me a stack of forms. "If you would kindly sit in the waiting area—" she gestured—"and fill out these forms, we would all be much obliged."

I nodded, moderately dumbfounded, and went into the beautiful white waiting room which was a cross between a hotel bathroom, an insane asylum, and heaven to sit down.

_Name: _Fleur Delacour.

_Age:_ 20

_Eye Color: _Blue

_Hair Color_: Blonde

_Height: 5'8"_

_Weight: _(decided it wouldn't be completely horrid to dock a few pounds off my weight, because I can always just work it off later, and then it wouldn't be a lie, it would be an accurate prediction) 100—_no_—120 pounds.

_Prior Job Experience:_ Worked at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a teacher's assistant and teacher—approx. five months; (decided was okay to exaggerate) worked as party planner, main events planned include Harry Potter's birthday party / victory celebration, see _Daily Prophet 08-01-05_, Page Four.

_Preferred Jobs: _High powered ministry jobs, social event planning, journalist, spy, ambassador

_Talents_: Can easily foresee problems that may or may not occur; can make a fantastic cup of tea; can model lingerie; can command class of useless nitwits, i.e. am disciplinarian; am fully schooled in the art of Alternative Self-Protection, i.e. the trade of temptresses and French schoolgirls down on their luck; can easily extinguish fires.

That was easy, right? So then I sat down and waited for Job Application Barbie to descend from heaven, unclip her wings, and give me a job. Which she did, but in several steps. It seemed I had barely finished before she reappeared and dragged me into a wide, spacious hall filled with seated, downtrodden Veela, looking with rapt, under-eye-circled attention at a podium. My tour guide turned to me. "Job auction. Here you go," she said. How very clipped! How very business-like! She handed me one of those paper ping-pong paddles with my—somewhat modified—job qualifications on it.

**20 Year Old Ex-Hogwarts Assistant / Party Planner**

**Desperate for Work**

**Unrealistic Expectations**

**Low Qualifications**

It was all very flattering, don't you think? But there was no use complaining, it was simply the paddle life had handed me. And smacked me with.

"First job," the auctioneer said—I was so right, she sounded exactly like a Nazi headmistress itching to say OUT. "Assistant to Mr. Percy Weasley at the Ministry of Magic. Pays five galleons an hour, offers pension plan and worker's comp." I was going to raise my hand, but then Job Application Barbie swatted it down, pointing at _Low Qualifications_. Wanted so very much to hurl something blunt and metallic at her head, but refrained because am trying this stupid thing where one is a good person.

"Second job…" It went on and on, with horrid Job Application Barbie swatting down every time up to: "Job 126, barmaid at the Leaky Cauldron—" This time J. A. Barbie was forcibly raising my hand into the air.

"And the job goes to _Fleur Delacour_," the auctioneer said in the manner of a put-off telephone operator. Imagined self in ridiculous eighteenth-century barmaid costume, a revised edition of the milkmaid costume patented in Sweden, saying, "What can I do you for, governor?" _à la _Eliza Doolittle in _My Fair Lady_. However, I have resolved that that shall not happen—rather I will be completely competent and professional and pretend I am not working in a bar, but rather in an office plus alcohol.

"And finally," the severe auctioneer said, glaring individually at everyone in the room as if she had a personal and very specific reason for hating them, "a job that I advise _no self-respecting Veela _take. Once again this week." She took out the sheet that had been sent to the Agency (see, am learning very quickly to capitalize Agency in manner of secret spy corporation, which proves as I am part of this posh and beautiful unemployed club)—and read aloud. "_Draco Malfoy needs a nanny. Preferably five-eight and taller, blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous, and with no aversions to dungeons or felony crimes. Costume provided_."

Despite the disturbing nature of this ad, I can somewhat understand it—don't you always need a nanny if you never grow up?

**Day One-Ninety-Three of Free Independence**

**Monday, August 10th, 2005**

**Preparing for First Day of Work**

**7:16 AM**

**7:16 a.m. **–All right, have clothes strewn all over the floor. What do you wear when you are a _barmaid?_ And when they don't even say barmaid anymore, _except_ in the Agency, apparently? I mean, quite obviously I couldn't just show up there in a floor-length gown or a business suit, but it is my first day on the job and I shouldn't look like a slob, or that I don't care about the position! Perhaps I should try jeans and a more formal top?

_What does that mean?_

In theory, all of that makes sense, I suppose—but _what_ is a _more formal top?_ What the hell should I be looking for?

I hate men. They dress in khakis and drink beer and don't have to think before they leave the house in the morning—I mean, they probably should, but they don't, and no one faults them for it. No one faults _them_ for wearing khakis! But can _I_ wear khakis on my first day of work? NO! _Why?_ Because!—well, actually because I hate khakis.

**8:00 a.m. **– _Merde en un seau! Je suis en retard ! __Non !_

**12 NOON – **On lunch break, miserably eating a sandwich after being reprimanded by new boss: large overbearing woman who quite obviously isn't my greatest fan as of this minute. Am barmaid/waitress-type, wandering around aimlessly, asking things like, "Are you being served?"

Sigh. I wish I were lazily lazing about my in apartment, drinking tea and reading _Wealthy Witch _books, imagining I were as skinny as the protagonist. I miss the leisurely life, where all I had to worry about was whether or not Harry was thinking about Hermione, as opposed to that coupled with whether or not I'm properly caring for the customers who smell like day-old sweat and moth-eaten shoes.

_Merde_. Break's over.

**5:00 p.m.** – Was sitting languidly on chair, thinking about nothing (except for cosmopolitans), when Large Overbearing Woman barked at me to attend to my duties and that lunch break did not extend until three o'clock. HATE WORKING LIFE.

**7:00 p.m.** – Off work. Exhausted. Disgusted. Sick.

**7:30 p.m.** – So I was just sitting at the bar—well, not _at_ the bar, but rather leaning comfortably against the bar in the manner of a cool, casual working girl who has far better things to do but is gracing you with her presence—when who should come over but the bane of my existence and the perpetual wearer of disgusting-smelling cologne, Draco Malfoy, the little engine that shouldn't.

"Hello, kitty."

"That is a Japanese toy brand, not my name—leave."

"Is that any way to treat your costumers?" Draco said snarkily, tossing his hair in the way that only boys do, when they don't exactly have enough hair to flip, but just enough to jerk their heads in one direction like a head twitch and think it's sexy when it's not.

"Draco, don't you have a bedtime? Don't you have some building blocks to play with or some monosyllabic words to learn how to spell?" My boss kept on looking at me as if I were taking up her valuable time and then snapping her head around as if my looking back at her was making her uncomfortable.

Draco waggled his eyebrow in a ridiculous fashion. "Actually, the word of the day is _legs_," he said, leaning in far too close for comfort or air, "so why don't we go back to my place and spread the—"

And then I smashed his nose into the bar counter. It was bloody and disgusting and messy and I had to clean it up—it was completely nasty.

Oh, and then I got fired.

**8:30 p.m.** – All right, whatever. I'm fine. I just haven't seen Harry today, that's all. And there's nothing wrong with that—I can't see him every five seconds, obviously. I mean, it's not my job to stalk the poor boy, I mean, what kind of loser does that? Not me, certainly—because running up to room 16 to knock pathetically on the door and run away is not at all what I have been doing for the past hour.

At all.

I'm serious.

**Day One-Ninety-Four of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, August 14th, 2005**

**Back to the Agency**

**8:10 AM**

**8:10 a.m. **–They're going to ask me what I'm doing back… and then get pissed… and then shoot me. This is seriously not how I want to die. I've always wanted to die in a blaze of glory—for example, that night at Location XYZ? I would have totally been okay dying there, perhaps in Harry's arms with some accompanying trumpet music. That would have been fine. _This_, however, would just be embarrassing.

**8:35 a.m.** – Was about to head out the door with whole dejected and apologetic downtrodden Veela speech organized, when the least dejected and apologetic downtrodden Veela popped up in my fireplace shrieking like a chimpanzee on speed or similar. "Yippee! I bought a dress! It costs _loads_ of money! Yippee!"

"What do you want, Renée?" I asked, wondering how she could possibly sound like a chimpanzee on speed and where I could possibly obtain some.

"Well, as my far less attractive younger sister, I found it incredibly important to inform you about the wonderful things happening in my life to console you about the pathetic things happening in yours. Speaking of, how much more pathetic has your life gotten since I last checked?" she asked, blowing on her fingernails to dry them and rolling her eyes up at the ceiling.

"If you really want to know, read the tabloids. They always seem to know everything," I remarked, looking towards the door and wondering if I could telekinetically force to come to me so that I could quickly leap through it without Renée noticing. "Listen, Renée," I said, inching slowly towards the door in a semi-imperceptible fashion, "I have some work to do—"

"Of course you don't: you're jobless and broke. What more could you have to do besides listening to me and helping me plan my fabulous wedding? Now, don't be selfish, help me pick out a napkin company."

"You do know that no one gives a damn about napkins, right?" I said. I was so close to the door—you seriously wouldn't believe my superb sneaking out of the door skills. It's these skills which occasionally prompt me to wonder: why I am not a secret agent? Then I realize that I am lazy and inefficient—after which point, I try to head out the door even faster.

"Everyone gives a damn about napkins! This is my wedding!" she exclaimed. Oh right, I forgot—_everyone_ gives a damn about napkins, because Renée's ring is swallowing her hand, and her place-cards will probably cost more than a war on a small flooded Asian country, and her hair is the sort of aggressive blonde that some call attractive and others call "about to smother me," and I _must_ care because I'm the ugly sister who has no life except for looking amazed at Renée's announcements about recipes for wedding reception tea. Oh, of course—_everyone_ gives a damn about napkins.

"Renée, I am not in the mood. Can I talk to you about this later?" Renée was about to let out a manipulatively gasping sob along with the line I've heard too often in conversations with Mum: "_But you're supposed to love me! I'm your (insert relation here)!" _but I had, by that time, cleverly snuck out the door.

**9:00 a.m.** – "You're back. Again."

"Yes." I love how when people ask questions, they end them with periods and add an incredulous look to solidify the comfort level of the other person sitting on a cushion with pins sticking out whilst they sit on plush couches and drink expensive coffee. "I mean, I know it's really soon, but there were complications—"

"You smashed someone's nose into the bar," she read slowly, as if I didn't know and was completely illiterate. "You appeared unapologetic and only showed _disgust_ when you were instructed to clean up the blood."

"Well, yes, but you have to understand the circumstances—"

"Come with me," she said severely, standing up—and in this process seeming to make her bun even tighter—and marching militantly to a room filled with file cabinets. She led me into a corner and spent several minutes flipping through the cards, looking, perhaps, like one of those fish species with sucked in cheeks who eat their babies. "For someone," she began, flipping furiously, "with so little respect for the wishes of others," passing the D section, "with so unforgiving a nature," passing the G section, "and with a talent for cleaning up blood—" she glanced at me austerely—"there can be only one career path." I blinked in a confused and innocent manner, hoping she wouldn't toss me out on the streets to be a prostitute for the rest of my life.

She gracefully extracted a card. "You're going to be a nanny."

**10:00 a.m.** – A nanny. Not even a babysitter, but a nanny. I am going to be cleaning up the blood of snotty little children for the rest of my life? I am going to be bouncing little Draco Malfoys on my knee until my debt to society and my landlord is paid? I will have to listen to words like "booger" and "cooties" and _wait_ as they sink into my own vocabulary?

**12 NOON** – I have just been mailed my nanny's outfit. It looks remarkably like a French maid costume. I think they were trying to be ironic. Every article has a post-it note attached to it, explaining its use in detail as if I were the most facile and idiotic human being on earth.

The apron: to protect the skirt from stains, for wear when cooking, and to (in a bind) beat the children with. The skirt: an invitation for your employer to overpay you. The feather duster: another instrument with which you may beat the children; a prop for those instances in which you are flirting with your employer. The button-down shirt: while zippers are more fun, buttons can be lessened and increased in seductiveness at will; buttons easily pop off so that you will have the opportunity to save the child using the Heimlich maneuver and be revered by said child's parents; in case maneuver has been forgotten, instructions are on the underside of your apron. The three-inch patent leather heels: To crush people with; for your employer's pleasure. The stockings: to cover your legs with in the expensive stone mansions you will be working in, which have no central heating. Latex gloves: for sanitation purposes when cleaning up blood. Maid's hat: for fun.

**1:30 p.m.** – Gah! Poussière has just flown in with angry looking scarlet letter demanding that I appear at some snooty sounding location in under twenty minutes, as parents are going to the Convention for the Absurdly Rich and do not wish to take their frightening six-year-old with them. Now I must put on this ridiculous costume… God.

**2:00 p.m.** – Despite the ridiculousness of the costume and the fact that I am late, I was pleased to discover Harry's interest as I walked by his apartment in my nanny's uniform.

**2:30 p.m.** _– Please shut up. PLEEEEASE stop crying!_ This child is six years old! Six year olds have no right to cry—they can speak for God's sake! Why aren't they using their words? Since when have we raised six year olds to have no linguistic skills apart from "AAH!" and "NOO!"? As I understood it, England as a nation has always prided itself on its stiff upper lip, and the upper lip of this little twit keeps quivering and then widening into piercing howls. Tony Blair is doing something _wrong_!

**3:00 p.m.** – Can you impeach a prime minister? I think I'm going to stage a coup… and probably no one will notice, but still. I'm sitting next to this blonde, angelic child who continues to eat my shoes and beat me with a broom. I really think I am the one being abused in this situation, unlike the instructions on the bottoms of my stilettos indicate. I should be contacting Amnesty International. Do they deal with Abuse _by _a Child?

**3:30 p.m.** – "Thomas, please stop eating my shoes. They cost lots and lots of money and I don't think your parents want to pay for them…" I am trying to reason with a six year old, and for some reason I keep thinking that it will work, that all I have to do is pat Thomas on the shoulder and say, "Let's talk about our feelings." It's sort of deluded, I know.

**6:00 p.m.** – Was patting Thomas uselessly on the shoulder when the door burst open and a tightly wound redhead stepped through the door. "Who are you?" he asked, tossing his cape in a very official looking matter, making me wonder if perhaps black capes were the new fashion in bouncers these days.

"Oh, I'm the… nanny." I hate saying nanny. It's a horrible word. It reminds me of old ladies with warts on their noses who constantly spout off about making tea and knitting, only one of which I do consistently. "Um, who are you?" I was desperately afraid he would blow up and say, "I'm only the most important person in the world, in charge of your pathetic life, you nitwit!" or similar, but instead he raised one eyebrow cynically and said rather pompously:

"Percy Weasley, employee of the Ministry. You still haven't fully answered my question."

"What question?" I was beginning to wonder if he was going to stand there in the doorway and let the wind flutter through his cape while the sun lit up his hair forever, when he stepped inside and pulled me to my feet. Thomas blinked stupidly in the face of such authority. And, I admit, so did I.

"Who are you?" Except it was less of a "who are you?" than a "tell me now, wench!" as his character would have remarked in the _Halcius Pottotius _book series. I sat patiently, waiting for him to draw his sword, hold it to my neck and shout "who do you work for?" with the zeal and clout that only a member of Halcius Pottotius's Band of Merry Knights could.

"Fleur Delacour," I answered, wondering vaguely if Percy Weasley was scaring Thomas, who was now teething even more anxiously on my shoes. "What are you doing here?"

"Do you know the professions of the people you work for, Ms. Delacour?" Percy asked. The way he spoke called to mind the word _persnickety. _

"Um, they work for… banks or something? They're ridiculously rich, if that's what you're asking," I said thoughtfully, finally bending over to forcibly remove Thomas from my shoes. "I still don't understand what's going on here."

"I'm going to have to bring you in for questioning," he said austerely, stroking his chin as I wondered where I could get him a pipe and a deerstalker hat while he waited around for Dr. Watson. "You may not be aware of this, Ms. Delacour, but your employers are under suspicion of being involved in an underground Muggle artifacts smuggling ring. This ring generally consists of wealthy married couples with young children who constantly attend 'business functions,' in which these artifacts are packaged, shipped, and traded. It is this sort of perverted… _hobby_ that the Ministry is doing its best to halt."

"What about Thomas? What's going to happen to his parents?" I suddenly had this miserable flashing thought of both of Thomas's parents going to Azkaban. Of course, Thomas was a horrid little tyke who was eating my shoes, but he didn't deserve to be pseudo-orphaned!

Oh god. Orphans. Harry. Oh god, Harry.

"I'll just need you to come with me, Ms. Delacour. It is of the greatest importance." Percy Weasley seized my arm and I seized Thomas. Even if I was being employed by corrupt smugglers, I would be damned if I lost another job because of negligence. Percy, thrusting his chin forwards in conviction, Apparated the three of us into the Ministry of Magic.

**11:15 p.m.** – Was in the MoM for ages upon ages, with Thomas whining and whimpering on my lap, fiddling with my apron and asking me where his parents were. I didn't know what to say and beside that point, Percy was circling around me in an entirely disturbing fashion. "Are you sure you can't recall the items in the sitting room? Anything that stuck out as distinctly Muggle to you? Any 'eckeltricity' running through the house? Any fellytones?"

"Mr. Weasley, it's 'electricity' and 'telephones.'"

"So you do know something?" Percy exclaimed suspiciously. It is my firmest belief that Percy should have been actively involved in the Spanish Inquisition—he would have been spectacular at it, and he would have died five hundred years ago.

"No, I don't know anything, not about this. I lived with a family of Muggles for a year and I picked up concepts such as _telephones _and _electricity_. That's all." Thomas hopped off of my lap and wandered over to Percy's desk, hopefully to upset things and destroy important documents—I was not in a forgiving mood. This was a horrible first day on the job.

Percy perched on his desk in a puddle of ink Thomas had just spilled. "Fleur Delacour," he said thoughtfully, "how would you like to work in the Ministry of Magic?"

**Day Two-Hundred of Free Independence**

**Monday, August 20th, 2005**

**HA! Triumphant**

**7:00 AM**

**7:00 a.m. **–Well. You know what this means. This means I will never have to wear an apron again. This morning, I am looking at the full scope of my wardrobe, every business-like suit I ever bought despite my family's chastisements: "You'll never wear them… you don't even have a job…" Well HA! LOOK WHO HAS A JOB NOW!

**7:25 a.m.** – I am showered, scrubbed, polished, powdered, scented, _and _wearing pantyhose. I am definitely prepared for the cosmopolitan business world out there.

Checklist for the Cosmopolitan Business Girl

By Fleur Delacour

1 cup of over-expensive coffee

2 pairs of pantyhose (backup pantyhose is essential)

3 current issues of hippest fashion magazine

4 breath mints

5 different ways to look smart

6 different ways to look sexy

7 opportunities to walk by Harry Potter's window

**7:35 a.m.** – I have never looked so business-like in my life! I am über-tempted to Floo Jacques just to say, "Ha! Look at me! I have a job! It's important! I'm going to make more money than you!" However, that would make me dependent on his approval, which is exactly what I am _not_ going to be. Where is Jacques anyway? Is he even in my life anymore?

No time to worry about this! Must get to work!

**9:45 a.m.** – Was being business-like in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, identifying things like cell phones and fire alarms, but then I got bored and decided to take out the official _Ministry of Magic_ quill and describe the goings-on. First of all, Percy came to welcome me aboard, making a long speech about decorum and efficiency and trust while I filed my fingernails and imagined him in _Halcius Pottotius. _Funny thing about Percy—he tries to act very adult and professional around underlings like me, but when other Official-er than Thou middle aged wizards zip around giving him tilted-over-the-eyeglasses looks and calling him "Weatherby" he shrinks away like a little schoolboy. It's über-amusing, but I feel sort of bad for him.

**11:15 a.m.** – I'm definitely not going to use the Ministry fireplace to Floo Jacques. That's just plain… immoral. Plus, I have Razrs to separate from Chocolates, light bulbs to arrange by wattage, CDs to put in their respective cases, and Suspicious Persons files to read. And when I'm done with that, I'll fantasize about Prince Amedeo of Belgium… gorgeous. And mine. Oh God! Right! Work!

**12 NOON** – "So usually, I eat lunch over there," Percy says, gesturing vaguely towards stuffy men and stuffier couches. "But you'll want to sit with people you'll relate to, like Molly from the mailroom. Studies show that people with similar job importance enjoy talking and socializing together."

He's so sweet when he's being condescending. NOT. Also, while I was not working, I thought about "NOT"—I want to bring it back. It's the perfect way to end everything that sounds even remotely nice.

"Well, I'm sure you have tons of fun eating with Dances-With-Stick-Up-His-Ass," I mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

_Merde. _"I mean… Mr. Twycross, I'm _sure_ you have tons of fun eating Mr. _Twycross._" From now on I will have to remember to keep my Native American names for all my coworkers to myself.

"Well, actually, he's a very informative man. I learn lots of… lots of really, top-secret, important Ministry things from eating lunch with him—he says that I'm one of the Ministry's most valuable assets," Percy said—in a strange balance between arrogance and embarrassment, as if he was trying desperately to be suave but, unlike Harry Potter, had never taken lessons. "I mean, it's a real… a real privilege to be able to eat lunch with him." I honestly felt like asking him if it was also a real privilege to have his lips permanently attached to Mr. Twycross's ass as well.

"But he calls you Weatherby."

"Well," Percy said with an uncomfortable air to his voice, "everyone around here calls me Weatherby. It doesn't mean they don't _know_ my name… it's just that, well, it's like a little nickname. No, they… they know my name, definitely."

"Right. Are you sure? I mean, not that they know your name, but that you'd rather be eating lunch with everyone over there who's about fifty years older than you? Studies show that people with similar ages also enjoy talking and socializing together, you know."

Percy looked indecisive for a few seconds, going into a series of facial acrobatics the likes of which I have never seen before. "Um, yes. Yes, I'm sure. I hope you have a lovely first day here at the Ministry," Percy said, loosening his tie briefly before straightening it and trying in vain to tighten it again, walking away into a sea of age and gray-haired prosperity.

**5:30 p.m.** – Whatever, I'm being paid a lovely amount of money at this job. I have no reason to be bored when I'm being paid so wonderfully not to be. I'm definitely not having fun painting my nails and playing with a recently confiscated cell phone. I'm not jealous that those Muggle artifact smugglers have the new pink iPod nano. It's only that I wish I had that iPod nano, and painting my nails and fiddling with electronics is incredibly amusing to me, and this job is like watching grass grow.

"You're so dedicated!" a voice rings out in admiration as I fall out of my chair.

"Christ, Percy, don't scare me like that!" I screech from the floor. I honestly think the Ministry should invest in carpets. These cold black and gray tiles are doing nothing for the atmosphere. Any interior designer would be appalled.

"Oh sorry," he says, beaming to the top of his red hair. "It's just—most people at this job chuck these artifacts into their appropriate bins in disgust, but you—you're going so in-depth. Look at you, dismantling that Muggle artifact, contriving that pink thing to make noises and flash words across the surface! How brilliant!"

I look at Percy with bemusement for a few seconds before climbing back into my chair. "Well, it's good to know you think I'm doing so well."

"Well, you are!" Percy smiles and then glances behind him. "Well, I better go. I'm needed on some official business." _Of course you are._ "But I see bright things in your future." I nod and he turns to go before stopping and turning back to me. "Fleur—Ms. Delacour," he begins, smiling, that same old schoolboy looking coming to his face, "maybe you'd like to have lunch… with me and Mr. Twycross tomorrow." I'm hoping I didn't wince, because in my mind I was grimacing—Percy's _très mignon_, but I am most definitely not interested in three-way with Percy and a 70-year-old Ministry wizard.

"Or maybe you could come eat lunch with me," I suggest, clandestinely switching songs on the iPod I'm hiding under the desk.

Percy looks unsure. "All right… all right, sure," he smiles. "I'll see you tomorrow, Fleur," he says, walking off into the distance while Spoon's _Gimme Fiction _happily blasts in my ears.

**Day Two-Hundred-Five of Free Independence**

**Friday, August 25th, 2005**

**The Official Beginning of the Official End of My Very First Week**

**7:00 AM**

**7:00 a.m. **–I'm not going to lie, I've grown to greatly enjoy putting on skirt-suits and prancing out the door, picking up expensive coffee in London, knowing that my paycheck will cover it at the end of the month. It's sort of fabulous knowing that you don't owe your parents say, 350 Silver Sickles for a pair of boots you bought on a whim—it's the true feeling of independence, and I _love_ it. Also: pantyhose. Not as uncomfortable as people make it out to be.

**8:00 a.m.** – Aha! I'm _not_ only made for jobs which involve cleaning up blood and having no concept of human emotion—I can organize cell phones and iPods, spy on people, and correct exploding toilets! I have no idea why the entire exploding toilet joke never gets old, but for some reason, it never does.

**10:00 a.m.** – Percy is smiling at me from a million miles away in the Ministry. Oh wait. No. He's definitely just started walking very quickly in another direction. Percy Weasley is a very confusing individual—perhaps some therapy will help him overcome his indecisiveness and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

**12 NOON –** Apparently, we're alternating. On Tuesday, Percy and I ate lunch together, but he looked longingly at the conversations of his superiors, which looked as boring as hell. On Wednesday, he excitedly dragged me into the glowingly comfortable recesses of the Ministry where the top officials work and participated actively in a conversation about Section Sixteen of a document I'd never heard of. On Thursday, he ate lunch with me once more and this time managed not to mention important documents, 101 Steps to Becoming a Model Citizen, or the history of the Ministry of Magic. Instead he managed to talk about his family, how he came to be working at the Ministry—other things he likes to do _besides_ filing and taking notes. So today, I must venture back towards those insanely fluffy couches and those morbidly boring human beings.

**3:30 p.m.** – "Are you okay?" Percy asked, because my eyes were quite clearly out of my head as I stared in amazement at the wizards and witches who were somehow able to talk about the same thing for an half an hour. Yes, they were definitely extending my lunch break, but there was only so far I could extend my tolerance. "You look a little sick."

"What on _earth_ are they talking about?" I asked. Then I realized that I had broken one of the cardinal rules of dealing with Percy Weasley—do _not_ ask him to explain anything. He started to say "well…" when I cut him off. "It's just," I began, "sometimes I feel a _wee_ bit left out here."

"Why?" As if anyone could ever feel left out among talks of legislature and business! Who _doesn't_ read _Finance for the Modern Wizard_ daily?

"People here are always talking about, I don't know… finance and business and law-making and rules," I explained. "I've just never been really big on finance and business and law-making and rules, that's all. I don't know very much about it."

"Well, I could get you a subscription to _Finance for the Modern Wizard—_"

"No thanks," I said quickly. "Thanks… but no thanks." I tried to make up for my quick dismissal of what was clearly his favorite newspaper with a smile.

With a sigh, Percy checked his watch. "Oh God. Must be back to work. Hope you have a good day, Fleur," he smiled. Goodness, what a nice boy he'd be if he weren't such a workaholic.

**7:00 p.m.** – Wandering around the complex at 7 pm, noticing how dreadfully alone I am. I feel like ever since Harry's birthday, he's been gone. What the _hell_ did Hermione say to him on that balcony? Should _I_ have been the one to chase after him, or is he just ignoring me now? And now I'm at his door, looking at the gold 16, wondering what on earth I was thinking doing all of this. I think it might all be so much easier if I simply stopped thinking about Harry Potter.

* * *

**A/N:** All right. So school's a bitch. And I've forgotten what sleeping is like. And my dorm room is a disgusting pig sty, so I live in squalor and filth. However, I have a 21 day Christmas Break. So guess what? I'm going to write as much fanfiction as I possibly can over the course of the next 21 days, because God knows I can't do it at school, as proven by the 20 year hiatus. I love you... forgive me?

Kisses,

Femme Teriyaki


	18. September: Corporate Ladder Theory

**September (Part I): **Corporate Ladder Theory**

* * *

**

**Day Two-Hundred-Twelve of Free Independence**

**Friday, September 1st, 2005**

**Lying Awake and Confused, Which Should Be Illegal**

**4:45 AM**

**4:45 a.m. **– Why am I awake? Oh God, I'm awake because I can't sleep. I keep thinking about Harry's door. Isn't that ridiculous, not him, but his door. Maybe I should have knocked—no, how creepy would that have been? "I've been thinking about you, so I wandered over to your door to stare at it for an hour or so?" God, God, God, he's forgotten all about me, and I've go to forget all about him.

**5:30 a.m.** – But everything reminds me of him! My bed covers—my damn bed covers!—they remind me of _rumples_. I think about him _in the shower_. I think about him _in my towel_. And when I'm washing the dishes—_yes_, I do wash the dishes sometimes, especially now that Jacques is off in La-la-land with the Bitch Queen of Misery—I think about making out with him on the sink. God, I'm a tramp. Chocolate. Chocolate reminds me of him. It'll be amazing for my diet, I suppose, looking at chocolate and then immediately bursting into tears. However, there was yesterday, when I saw that piece of chocolate sitting innocently on the counter and then pounced on it. But I'm sure that won't actually happen much more often… chocolate isn't… _that_ seductive.

**7:00 a.m.** – Okay, right, so there's a box of chocolates on the floor of my bedroom right now, half-empty, because half of those chocolates are in my mouth. Harry freaking left them at my door this morning, with a cute little freaking note, like: _I'm so sorry about the birthday. I know you went through a lot, and it meant a lot to me. Thanks, Harry_. I suppose he thought it would make me feel better about not having freaking seen him in what seems like a year, but it sort of feels like when people pick up Hallmark Sympathy cards because they don't know what to actually say, or when your boyfriend breaks up with you on a post-it note because he doesn't have any idea how to deal with the weeping mess you'll become, or doesn't _want _to. Doesn't care enough? So now, here I am, on the bed eating the most chocolate I've ever allowed myself to have in a month—was _definitely_ on the track to 120, _definitely_—thinking about how, like chocolate, Harry is one of those things you think you can do without, but in actuality, have to have all the time to be happy.

**8:00 a.m.** – Freaking work. Hate working. Love martinis. From this point onwards in my life, I resolve to drink nothing that doesn't come in a martini glass. Am definitely going to pick up some chocolate liqueur on the way back from work and play the Drinking Game with _Halcius Pottotius._

**9:00 a.m.** – "What is this thing supposed to do?" asks Jeremy, a very small coworker of mine who I swear is twelve years old, pointing out a microwave the MAFIA (Muggle Artifacts For Insignificant Amounts— a corporation we busted a few days ago) was peddling.

"It's supposed to heat food. Right now it is permanently setting things on fire. Just remove the old spell and put a simple heating spell on it," I said. I've been extinguishing fires that microwave has been setting for since Wednesday, but I suppose it's given me a chance to brush up on the spells I learned from Flitwick.

"All right," murmurs Jeremy in a disgruntled "I hate Muggle crap" fashion. I don't think he realizes the seriousness of the situation at hand: stopping the MAFIA, seizing their artifacts, and putting these artifacts into my purse.

**12 NOON** – LUNCH. TALK ABOUT SOMETHING _OTHER_ THAN GRINGOTTS, PLEASSSSE.

**1:30 p.m.** – All right, so I made Percy take me out of that disgusting pool of oldness. "How can you stand it? I just don't understand it—you grew up with Fred and George and all of that: how can you possibly enjoy talking about banking? I would assume you would find firecrackers and candy that turns your teeth green more interesting than finance and politics."

"I've really never found that sort of thing amusing," Percy said earnestly. "I mean, I guess that's what you might expect, but… you know, my dad works in the Ministry, and I so looked up to him growing up—I guess I just thought—"

"Awww, you just wanted to please your parents," I smiled. I sort of have this condition in which I inadvertently treat human beings like puppies and kittens and thereby coo at everything they do. "Sorry," I said quickly, realizing that I was embarrassing myself. "It's just, I definitely know what you mean—I've been through my fair share of trying to please my parents too."

"Well, I'm sure they're proud of you," Percy remarked, briefly putting down his copy of _The Daily Prophet_, which was a humongous feat for him, I'm sure. He was just getting to what brightens his each and every day, his favorite part: _Prophet Politics_.

"Oh no," I reassured him, thinking of the Christmas lights I had to disenchant when I got off my lunch break and how entirely delighted my parents would be thinking of their daughter wearing stockings in a cold office untangling sequences of wires.

"What are you talking about? You were in the Triwizard Tournament—I know that didn't quite turn out the way anyone really expected it to go, but still—and just in July, you helped defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. That's quite an accomplishment for someone who's barely twenty."

"I guess," I sighed, having one of those annoying flashbacks that always lead to revelations in soap operas but just seem to be annoying in real life. The Triwizard Tournament. That's where I first met Harry. _No, we're not thinking about Harry. Not thinking about Harry at all. _"I'm going to get back to my desk," I said abruptly, grabbing my coat. "See you soon, Percy."

**4:45 p.m.** – Off work. Painting nails in apartment. I am definitely going to start taking charge of my life. I'm taking charge of my life with glittery nail polish. I don't have to miserable just because I'm not entirely sure of what's going on with me or anyone. Just because Harry's been distant doesn't mean the end of the world. He wouldn't be distant if he didn't have a perfectly legitimate reason for being so. I'm sure… of nothing. But still.

**6:00 p.m.** – Good God, mail. From Harry. Most fear-inducing words in the English language in red ink staring straight up at me: _We need to talk_—_Love, Harry_. Love? _No, stop that!_

We need to talk? We should have talked weeks ago, after he _dumped me at the door_ like a package he was dropping off, or the way you would drop off a little kid at daycare, but with far less affection. I should have done something about that when the time was right, instead of being a coward about the entire situation, but I just sat there waiting for him to Floo me or send me an owl or something, and now he's leaving pity chocolates at my door and sending me _we need to talk_ notes, but we haven't talked in so long that it doesn't even matter. What could he possibly have to talk to me about now?

**7:00 p.m.** – Desperate for advice, and realizing that I cannot be an island. Flooing Jacques _immediately_.

Here goes:

Jacques: Fleur?

Fleur: You sound surprised. Must be because I haven't seen you in month. Could that be it?

Jacques: You sound upset. You're upset, aren't you?

Fleur: You see, usually, your radar goes off when I'm sad or in a state of extreme emotional distress, but since oh, say, July 31st, I've been in plenty of distress and your radar hasn't been going off. Now, would that be because you've been busy or because you just don't care anymore?

Jacques: Fleur, I would never stop caring about you.

Fleur: Then where the hell have you been???

Jacques: I've been really busy, there've been a ton of tutoring jobs for me to do, and Janine—

Fleur: Okay, so Janine, who you've been dating for about two and a half seconds, has suddenly become your wife and I've become your dirty mistress who you talk to when she's out buying groceries, no more and no less?

Jacques: Fleur, that's a horrible metaphor.

Fleur: Well, if you'd been around correcting my English these past few weeks, then my metaphor would have been amazing, now wouldn't it?

Jacques: I'm sorry I've been gone, but Janine sent me an owl and I decided to go over and things have just been so hectic that I haven't really been able to…

Fleur: Please, just talk to me next time, okay? I have withdrawals! I was beginning to get _hives_.

Jacques: You were not.

Fleur: Okay, so I wasn't—but my foot did itch during my lunch break today!

Jacques: Lunch break?

Fleur: You've missed so much! I have a _job_ now! I work at the Ministry of Magic in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—I'm getting paid to disenchant cell phones and listen to iPods! Isn't that fantastic?

Jacques: If ever there were a job for you, that would definitely be it. I'm not exactly sure how you landed it, but…

Fleur: Well, Percy Weasley busted my previous employers on charges of Muggle artifact peddling, so he just hired me after he took me in for questioning.

Jacques: So you've had _more_ than one job? Miraculous.

Fleur: Why is that so hard to believe? I've saved the world before, and I can't get a decent job?

Jacques: No, honey, no you can't.

Fleur: Shut up. Actually, yes, I was working as a nanny.

Jacques: You're kidding.

Fleur: Stop laughing at me! Oh God, that reminds me, I have to return the uniform.

Jacques: UNIFORM?

Fleur: Oh God, it was some trashy French maid number, it's super-disgusting—thank God you never saw it.

Jacques: You're right, I have missed a lot—I could have made fun of you for weeks about that…

Fleur: I hate you. But on that note, would you please come home?

Jacques: Janine…

Fleur: I swear to God, if you say her name one more time—

Jacques: Oh, as if you don't talk about Harry 24/7?

Fleur: Actually, I have resolved to stop thinking about Harry. After the party, he callously dropped me like a last season handbag and hasn't spoken to me since.

Jacques, curiously: Really? Because as I recall, you two have a little baby rumple to take care of—who gets custody?

Fleur: No one, because as _I_ recall, you murdered my baby rumple with your OCD straightening powers.

Jacques: Please don't remind me—I've been trying to repent for my sins… He dropped you like a last season handbag, you say?

Fleur: Yes… it was horrible. And then this morning he dropped off a pity present! It was miserable! These super-delicious chocolates, they were just sitting there wrapped in this adorable little bow outside my door, with some stupid little thank you note about the party and a stupid little "I'm Sorry" when the whole damn thing went off about a _month_ ago, like he could just fix it, just like that! And then I got home from work today—that's not funny! I have a job!

Jacques, clearly suppressing laughter: Sorry. Continue.

Fleur: Well, I got home from work today to see Poussière there with a note from him!

Jacques: How dramatic—these plot twists become more and more fascinating every single day!

Fleur: I know my life is amusing to you, but do try to save your sarcasm for the end. So I got home and there's this stupid little note that says "We need to talk." What the hell? About what? How he's been _ignoring_ me?

Jacques: I'm sure he hasn't been ignoring you—he probably just didn't know what to say to you. Or maybe he's been dealing with some really serious personal issues. I mean, he's a superhero—generally they have pretty serious personal issues.

Fleur: You're right. Peter Parker and Mary Jane took forever to get together because of _his_ personal issues.

Jacques: Exactly.

Fleur: But I _know_ he's a superhero! So what's the big deal?

Jacques: Well, you'll have to talk to him to find out.

Fleur: I can't talk to him! I'm starting over! It's going to be like one of those things… like… you know how in movies when people clean their apartments and then suddenly their minds clear and they march out into the world and take charge of their lives? Well, it's going to be like that, only this isn't a movie.

Jacques, chuckling: Right.

Fleur: Don't chuckle at me; I'm serious. I've had an epiphany. And I'm going to start over and focus on my _career_—and I can call what I do a career because I wear _pantyhose_ now.

Jacques, smirking: I'm just glad you've embraced underwear again.

Fleur: The eyes that mock! Why have I extended you an invitation back into my life?

Jacques: Because you can't live without me. And you need someone to hold your shopping bags.

Fleur: Right… right… so anyway, there will be no talking with Harry, no more pity chocolates—

Jacques: Darling, that's because you ate them all.

Fleur: I did n—okay, so I did. But still! I had to eat them! I'm starting over! It's a clean slate, an empty chocolate box! In my mind, I've given him up completely, and soon I will be able to bravely walk by him and not smile at him or have eye-sex or—

Jacques: Did you just say eye-sex?

Fleur: Yes, Jacques, it's like regular sex only the worst thing you can get from it is a small eye-twitch.

Jacques: Lovely. Make sure to carry eye drops.

Fleur: What's that supposed to mean?

Jacques: Nothing!

Fleur: Sure. So I'm starting a new life. And that life should have you in it. Come home, please.

Jacques: Fleur, can I tell you something?

Fleur: Secrets! Yay!

Jacques: Fleur, that's not comforting at all.

Fleur: Whatever. What did you want to tell me?

Jacques: Just between you and me…

Fleur: Yes?

Jacques: I'm already packed.

Fleur: I love you! See in the a.m.!

Jacques: You're a ridiculous human being.

Fleur: I know. It's one of my best character traits. Night!

Jacques: Good night.

**9:00 p.m.** – Super-blissful, ultra-wondrous. Am taking an early night so I can wake up early and start my flat-cleaning, head-clearing venture.

**Day Two-Hundred-Thirteen of Free Independence**

**Saturday, September 2nd, 2005**

**CLEANING!**

**5:50 AM**

**5:50 a.m. **– I'm utterly amazed at how getting up too early for your own good can be so amazingly good for you! So far I haven't done any cleaning, but just thinking about it has made my mind miraculously clear itself. I am definitely ready to start marching out into the world. Except my apartment is really, really disgustingly messy. So I probably should clean it first.

**8:00 a.m.** – Taking a brief cleaning break. Sitting on the couch, lots of light streaming in, as is beautiful sunny September day, and feeling clear and marvelous, like vodka. Except, unlike vodka, I'm not tasteless. As a matter of fact, I think what I've done with the flat so far _wouldn't_ make the only interior designer I know, Renée's fiancée, vomit. I almost feel like painting the walls, but I don't think I'm allowed to that and the smell of house paint makes me faint.

**11:00 a.m.** – Okay, so have straightened my bookshelves and hidden all the trash, e.g. _Wealthy Witch _books and _Temptation NYC _book series, under my bed in a shoebox. Have displayed Pilates books so that a) it looks like I work out and b) I might actually consider working out. I even, in a strange spasm, disinfected the air with a clever spell I looked up in _Charming Your Apartment: Interior Decorating for the Wise Witch._ Then I displayed said book on the coffee table along with today's paper and a bowl of potpourri I found underneath my bed.

I made my bed, and straightened the picture frames, and charmed all the dirt out of the carpet; I sent all my dirty clothes out to the laundry (except this time, I remembered to save some clothes to wear for after I get out of the shower). Now I'm going to go attack my closet.

**2:30 p.m.** – "I swear to God, Fleur," Jacques is saying, looking at me disapprovingly, "I leave you alone for—"

"A month! Don't say 'five seconds' in that trademark way you do, because this time it was longer than five seconds—it was an entire month, an entire agonizing 30 days, Jacques," I remind him, lounging languidly on my couch.

"Why are you wearing that dress?" he asks.

Okay. So I was attacking my closet, and I was looking through it all, seeing what was unnecessary—I know, right? How can one seriously go through one's closet with the intent of _throwing clothes away?_ Isn't that some sort of blasphemy against everything even remotely sensible or fashionable? So, anyway, I was going through my closet, and I found the dress that I wore to the Lifetime Achievement Ceremony, and it brought back such memories of how simple—okay, not simple, but you know what I mean—things were back then. So I tried it on again and have been lounging on the couch reading _The Snitch Report_ ever since.

"Well, I was tidying up my closet—"

"Stop right there," Jacques said, looking beyond confused. "You were doing what?"

"I clean! I've changed since you've been gone, Jacques DeMontmorency—I _clean._" I gave him an intensely meaningful look as if to say: _This is what happens when you leave, mister._ "So I was cleaning out my closet, and then I saw the dress, and I couldn't help but start thinking—"

"You were doing _WHAT?_"

"And so I put it on and it was like it like that night in May again, like sitting at those tables with place-cards in such gorgeous fonts, and wearing such amazing shoes, and being with Harry and not _worrying_ about anything—"

"Fleur, you haven't _not_ worried about anything since you were eight years old," Jacques asserted, sitting on the couch with me and forcing me to move my feet, disrupting my carefully structured lounging position.

"I know that, Jacques, it's just that… You know what? No more. I'm getting changed—there's no use in lying around mooning over some guy who probably doesn't think about me anymore. He's going his own way, and I'm going my own way, and maybe sometimes our paths will cross, but ultimately, I'm my own person, and that person does not need the pain that comes with unrequited love," I said. I think I read that spiel in an Athena O'Hereagall book, but it thoroughly convinced Jacques.

"Darling, is that from _Halcius Pottotius and His Fair Lady?_"

I think Jacques is too aware of everything. Some time in the future he needs to shut his eyes and be oblivious. He should take it from me that it's immensely fun.

"Yes… but it really describes how I feel!" I grinned. "Help me up. We're going to go clean! And catch me if I start to fall back into despair."

"Preparing to catch," Jacques replied.

"I missed you."

"I know."

**7:00 p.m.** – Am now contentedly having dinner with Jacques in a blissfully clean apartment. I should have known having Jacques around would instantly raise the sanitation grade of my apartment. After a bit, he proclaimed that I needed to sit on a nearby couch and see how things should be done. Within the course of an hour and a half, I swear, he completely transformed this place. I barely recognize this beautiful, sparkling palace of cosmopolitan perfection! It's the epitome of a posh London apartment! God, I didn't know what living was up till now, definitely not.

**Day Two-Hundred-Sixteen of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, September 5th, 2005**

**Marching Resolutely Back Into the World**

**6:40 AM**

**6:40 a.m. **– Oh my God, my head is _so_ clear. I don't even understand it. Yesterday at work, yes that was clear. But as time goes on, I feel like it all just gets clearer and _clearer_. Maybe happiness and clarity is a function of cleanliness, because as I'm getting clearer and clearer my flat continues to get cleaner and cleaner. And since it's easy to conclude that cleanliness is a function of Jacques, it must be all his glorious doing that I'm so amazingly happy. I am going to have to get him an amazing Christmas present.

**7:30 a.m.** – "All right, Jacques, I'm off for work!" I definitely love shouting that; it's so self-encouraging. Maybe a _job _was what I really needed. Not just some degrading job being ogled by a perverted Potions professor, but rather a job that really makes me feel like I should be gracing the covers of _Vogue_ in pant suits and heels. I feel like treating myself now. I'm going to go out and buy a puppy.

"All right, have a nice day! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Jacques calls from coffee table, turning the pages of—what the hell?—_Finance for the Modern Wizard_. He looks up briefly. "And don't buy a puppy, Fleur—that's not treating yourself, it's hurting an innocent animal."

"Party-pooper," I sigh. If I were a little kid standing by a merry-go-round with a balloon, Jacques would sneak up behind me and pop it, I swear.

"Aren't you going to be late for work?"

"It doesn't end!" _Nag, nag, nag_—like my mother would be if she were thirty years younger and read _The Daily Prophet_.

"Have you sorted your socks into matching pairs yet?"

"Agh! STOP!"

"It's 7:30—do you know where your priorities are?"

"Fine, I'm leaving!"

**12 NOON** – On my usual lunch break. "You certainly look happier," Percy remarks, stirring his coffee. Even his coffee is direly serious: he takes it black. Isn't that like punishing yourself?

"Why? Was I not happy before?" I've known Percy for all of one month—exactly—and already he's noticing the cracks. Usually people start catching on to my neuroses much later on in the relationship. Or, you know, I may be deceiving myself.

"Not that you weren't… _happy_ before," Percy fumbles. He sincerely is one of the most awkward human beings I have ever met. I'm beginning to think that this is a Weasley thing. "It's just you seem lighter today. You… I don't know… glow."

I am appalled by this statement. _Pregnant_ women glow. "Excuse me?" It's altogether pissier-sounding than I wanted it to be.

"Oh God… that's… that's not what I meant to say… um…" See? You could stamp AWKWARD on his forehead. In his brain this very second, he's reviewing the connotations of the word _glow_ and wondering where he went wrong.

"Sorry. It's just that in my warped world glowing equals pregnancy," I smiled, because everything's okay as long as you smile!

Percy looks absolutely mortified. "Oh."

_Or not._

"Remind me to try and ease you slowly into my neuroses, instead of heaping it on full-force like this," I said, half to Percy, half to myself. "But anyway, so I seem happier? But I wasn't unhappy?"

"Well, yes. You just seem… clearer."

"YES!" I shout in excitement, having my own Meg Ryan in _When Harry Met Sally_ moment right that second, as everyone in the room turned to look at me with a slightly paranoid look in their eyes. "Sorry—again. It's just that that's exactly the word I was thinking when I was thinking with my super-clear mind this morning. So much for easing you slowly into my neuroses…"

"No, I think I'm fully prepared," stammered Percy with a smile. "There's altogether too much sanity in the Ministry of Magic anyway."

_This_ from Stuffy McStufferson? I think I'm bringing about a much needed change in Percy—I think I should be getting a Nobel Prize!

**5:00 p.m.** – "How was your day, darling?"

"Marvelous, darling," I say, skipping over to the couch, flinging my coat in the corner, and scooting next to Jacques. "What have we been doing all day?"

"We've been grading Japanese exams… I swear: the difference between hiragana and katakana completely escapes some people," he sighs in frustration, wielding his red pen like the weapon it is. While there are days when I think Jacques would be best suited as a stuffy businessman or an underwear model, the truth is, he's such a tutor. He could never be anything else. "So what did you do _at work_ today?"

"One day, you're going to stop finding the fact that I have a job funny," I told him. My entering the working world is completely plausible—like I've never had a job before! I've had _several!_

"And that will be a sad, sad day in this household," he replied.

"Ooh, do we constitute a household now?"

"I think we do." He tossed one exam off to the side—whoever Jeffrey is, he'll be incredibly upset—and picked up another one. "Darling, do you just keep all this insanity bottled up when I'm not around, or does it erupt everywhere like a volcano? Or have you miraculously replaced me?"

"Well, there's a very nice boy at work—" For a second, Jacques looks absolutely terrified. "But, don't worry, Jacques, he could definitely _never_ replace you. I'm not Beyoncé—I can't have another you in a minute."

"Your de-Mugglefication is going _so_ very well," Jacques smiled.

"What? A new hexed iPod came in today! It had _Irreplaceable!_ What was I supposed to do?"

"So this boy at work," Jacques interrupted, concerned. "He's not the new me?" I shook my head no. "Is he the new Harry?" Jacques asked, sounding, if possible, more concerned than he had been before.

"Oh of course not! We're friends!"

"Right," Jacques replied, giving me the eyebrow raise. "Right."

**Day Two-Hundred-Eighteen of Free Independence**

**Thursday, September 7th, 2005**

**Off to Work**

**7:40 AM**

**7:40 a.m. **– "Darling, I'm leaving!"

"Okay!"

"That's not your line!"

Jacques gets up from the coffee table and comes over to the door. "Leaving?" he asks, distraught. "Punishing me for my misdeeds are we? Oh God, Fleur, I promise I'll never leave you again!"

"Fine, but next time, _on cue_, okay?"

"I love you too, Fleur," Jacques smiles.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

**12 NOON** – Thankfully, Percy and I have stopped alternating—no more Mailroom Molly and no more Dances-With-Stick-Up-His-Ass Twycross. Instead we're _une petite île _in the lunch scene, and _we haven't talked about politics in entire days_.

_C'est très miraculeux. Je dois célébrer quand j'arrive à mon petit appartement !_

**6:30 p.m. – **Home! It's been days, and guess what: it's _still _clean! Isn't that _wondrous!_

"Fleur?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"Sit down." I'm entirely frightened by the words "sit down." They usually proceed "there's something I have to tell you" and "we need to talk," which are words no girl wants to hear _ever. _"Fleur," Jacques begins, "I think I might have to introduce Ladder Theory into this situation."

"Ladder Theory?"

"Yes—I'm afraid it's entirely necessary." Jacques sits down gravely. "So this boy from work? You're friends, you say?"

"Yes," I reply, thinking delightedly of my success.

"Remember when you made me watch _When Harry Met Sally_?" I nod, even though I didn't really _make_ Jacques watch _When Harry Met Sally_—he passive-aggressively insisted upon it. "I hate to say it, Fleur, but 'men and women can't be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way.'"

"Jacques, _we're _friends," I remind him.

"I'm not done," Jacques says, pacing like a businessman just about ready to pull out a pie chart and a pointer. "There are three exceptions—men and women can't be friends unless the man doesn't find the woman attractive, the man is in a relationship, or the man is gay."

"Jacques, that's horrible!" I exclaim. It makes it sound like friendship between men and women depends entirely upon men, and that offends my feminist sensibilities. I'm tempted to chuck _Backlash_ at him, but I have a feeling that he wouldn't appreciate it, and also that the pages would crumple and then I wouldn't have a legitimate chance to actually read it.

"I didn't want to introduce Ladder Theory, but it introduced itself!" Jacques replies, attempting to curtail my offended shrieks of injustice. If he wasn't Jacques, he would have lost his hearing by now. "I know Ladder Theory is horrible and sexist and a little too snarky for pop psychology, but in it's own sick little way, it has a point."

"Wait a minute," I sigh, thinking the "theory" over for a second. "So we can be friends because you're with Janine—" at this point, I paused to throw up a little in my mouth, "but Percy and I can't be friends because… but what if he doesn't find me attractive?"

"Impossible."

"He could be in a… secret relationship I don't know about!"

"High improbable," Jacques insisted, shaking his head.

"He could be—"

"Gay?"

Percy? Gay? _Noooo… couldn't be!_

**Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Four of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, September 13th, 2005**

**At the Office**

**9:15 AM**

**9:15 a.m. **– Okay, so I'm not going to lie. What Jacques has said about Ladder Theory has definitely stayed in my head since last Thursday, and even secretly listening to Julian Casablancas singing _Automatic Stop_ hasn't cleared my head. This is a huge issue—now that my head's been clear, I definitely don't want to go back to my old state of confusion. So I guess I have to settle this whole thing about whether or not Percy has _une petite_ crush on me.

**1:30 p.m.** – So I was having lunch with Percy today, when he stopped innocently eating his PB and J to say, as nervously as possible, "Um, Fleur?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Well, I was just thinking… I mean that… I just wanted to… cordially invite you to… I mean, to accompany me to a… family function this weekend, the—the—the 15th, I mean… just maybe…" he stammered, looking down on his sandwich.

I frowned a little. "You mean… like a date?"

"Oh no!" Percy exclaimed. "I mean, not _no_, it's just that… I don't think of you… that _way_."

"Oh!" I quipped, relieved. "Don't feel bad. To be honest, I'm a wee bit relieved about the entire thing; romance makes everything so complicated." I paused for a second—that damned Ladder Theory popping into my head. "May I ask why?"

"What?"

"I mean, not to make things more awkward than they already are," I began as a preface to making things more awkward than they already were, "but, you see, one of my friends mentioned how, I don't know: men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way, and I was wondering… why aren't you interested in me?"

"Umm…" At which point Percy started looking for exits, for which I simply cannot blame him.

"I mean, don't worry about it," I repeated, "It's only that I'm curious. For… reference purposes."

"Well, as—as long as we're b-being honest, Fleur—"

"Do you have a girlfriend? Is that it? You have a girlfriend, right, and she's really pretty, and that's why you're not interested, because you've already succeeded in having a wonderful relationship. That's why, right?" I asked while Percy sat speechless.

"Actually—"

"You don't think I'm pretty, right?" I said suddenly, grasping at straws filled with insatiable curiosity. "Go ahead, I can take it. My sister's been telling me I'm not pretty for years."

"_No_," Percy said, flustered. "You—you're very pretty, it's just that… I mean, I—I _couldn't_ think of you that way… it's just that I'm—I'm—"

"_OH MY GOD, YOU'RE GAY."_

"Is it that obvious?!" he burst out, bright red. "Oh my God, oh my God…" Percy promptly began to hyperventilate and, horrified, I scooted my chair over to him, and insisted he calm down.

"It's not _that_ obvious, Percy," I assured him, patting him on the back. I'm so effing lucky it was a noisy day in the Ministry today. Across the hall, they'd hauled in a wizard who'd tried to transfigure into a grizzly bear and was only half-successful. "It's just that I have super-excellent gaydar."

"_There are sensors for this?!_" Percy shrieked, nearly falling out of his chair. I rushed to catch him and put him in his rightful position before anyone noticed and asked why Weatherby was looking even more freakishly pale than usual.

"No… gaydar is just something you develop from living in France for a very long time," I said. "Please, just forget about it—I'm totally cool with it, and I'd _love_ to come that, er, 'family function' on Friday."

"Okay," Percy said with a comforted smile, wiping a stray bead of sweat from his forehead. "Sorry about that. Well, just pack a suitcase. It's s-sort of a weekend thing—until the 19th? I'll pick you up around five—I think I have your address on file someplace."

"Sounds lovely. I'm looking forward to it."

**6:45 p.m.** – "Jacques, you can breathe out now," I called, waltzing through the apartment. "Percy will definitely not be the new Harry anytime soon!" Jacques popped up from the kitchen where he had clearly been foiling my plans to cook dinner tonight. "As we say in France: _Il est un homosexuel," _I smiled, extending the _Elle_ in only my fave French way.

"I love French… everything sounds so much better. It sounds like you're ordering dinner."

"Speaking of, get out of the kitchen—I'm cooking tonight," I insisted, throwing my bag in the corner and dashing towards the entranceway.

"Over my dead body!" Jacques lives in mortal fear of my cooking, because of the tiny little fact that I only recently learned how to boil water. However, he shouldn't worry, because I have always—all right, not _always_, but most of the time—been able to read instructions.

"If necessary, Jacques—remember how you've done me wrong? How you've left me alone and cold?" I quite enjoy the guilt trip—it's like a vacation that you don't have to pack for.

"Fleur, you were definitely never cold. It's summer," Jacques pointed out, with _heinous disregard for my emotions_.

"Damn it, Jacques, you men have spent hundreds of years trying to get women to stay in the kitchen and cook, and now that one wants to do it for you, you're telling her NO?"

"Okay, point taken, cook away!" Jacques responded, jumping out of the way—he also lives in mortal fear of my tirades on misogyny and chauvinism.

"Thank you."

**Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Six of Free Independence**

**Friday, September 15th, 2005**

**Post-Work**

**1:13 PM**

**1:13 p.m. **– Frantically dashing through flat, as I have characteristically neglected to pack until the day I'm leaving. Jacques is staring at me in that way that says "How did I know you would forget to pack until now?" and I'm returning his stare in a way that says "How did I know you wouldn't _remind_ me?" Jacques and I don't have eye-sex; we have eye-conversations, and the worst thing you can get from that is pissed.

**2:00 p.m.** – Why is packing so hard? You would really think that it's just throwing things into a suitcase, but actually it's an intricate process—

Jacques has interrupted to say that packing is only hard if you have an odd obsession with packing every outfit you own and have no concept of time.

Excuse me while I attack him.

**3:00 p.m.** – Wasted an hour attacking and making up with Jacques. He's such a distraction—which begs the question, why is it that I got even _less_ done when he wasn't around?

I've got two hours until Percy comes to pick me up, so I've created a tentative packing list.

Oh GOD! Must now pack an array of modest, comfortable, and sexy clothes. I will need modest clothes when surrounded by Weasley parents who will need to see me as… not a slut. Comfy clothes as a break from the sexy clothes, and sexy clothes because… well, because I actually am a slut, at least mentally.

What I Will Definitely, Definitely Need This Weekend

By Fleur Delacour (with brief commentary by Jacques DeMontmorency)

1) Toothbrush, toothpaste, hairbrush, makeup, razors, shaving cream, soap, towel, bathrobe, perfume, shampoo, conditioner, exfoliant, astringent, toner. _(It's suddenly very clear why you take forever in the shower, Fleur.) _

2) Two pairs of jeans (regular and skinny), two skirts, three sweaters, one blouse, three shirts, one Oxford, one dress, one blazer, one hat, two scarves, three sets of pajamas (2 naughty, 1 nice), eight pairs of socks, two pairs of stockings. _(Let me just remind you that you're going away for 5 days not months.)_

3) An umbrella, insect repellent, two pairs of sunglasses.

4) Jacques has forbidden me from listing the 18 pairs of shoes I am taking with me, because he thinks it's disgraceful and wants to save "all the trees that would be wasted by making this list."

5) A copy of _The ASP Handbook_, because you never know. _(Fleur… why???_)

**4:45 p.m.** – Percy's going to be here any minute! Oh God! I must start immediately tearing through and looking for all the crap I've surely forgotten. "Jacques, _please_, help me out here!"

"Fleur, I don't know what astringent _is_!"

**7:00 p.m. –** So Percy met me at the door and chatted me up about how lovely the "Burrow" —where they live, I suppose—is in September. He told me the fascinating back-story Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Burrow is located. He gave me a warning worthy of the Surgeon General about Fred and George, including presents to accept and food to refuse from them. He explained briefly how he and his family have been on—with Percy, what else?—awkward terms as of late, and advised me to tread lightly when talking about the Ministry. Lastly he informed me that his father, Arthur Weasley, was incredibly fascinated by all things Muggle and that he would, no doubt, ask me why he hadn't seen me around the office lately and beg me to regale him with stories of spark plugs. I was to, at this point, politely state that I couldn't remember the majority of my Muggle experiences in America because I was heavily sedated the entire time.

However, Percy Weasley, a master of precision and effectiveness, who is no doubt one of the Ministry's most valuable employees, neglected to mention just one _tiny_ detail. This was no small Weasley "family function," no, not just that at all.

It was Hermione Granger's birthday party.

* * *

**A/N:** All right, so I was supposed to wait until tomorrow to update, but... I couldn't help myself! It was so hard! My best friend and beta has me on a schedule now, and it's shredding my nerves / eating my soul, so... hope you enjoyed! Review, please?

Loves,

Femme Teriyaki

PS: Percy/Fleur? What???? _Nooooooo_...


	19. Weekends, Weatherby, and the Weasleys

**September (Part II):** Weekends, Weatherby, and the Weasleys

* * *

**Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Saturday, September 16th, 2005**

**Day 2 of the Worst Weekend Ever**

**4:30 AM**

**4:30 a.m. **– HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HERMIONE! That's what it said on the humongous glittery banner in front of my face as I walked in the door, waving gloriously as if to say, "Hello! Have we met? I'm Hermione's birthday banner!" I blinked vapidly for a few seconds, reading the words over and over again in aghast disbelief. And then I dashed towards the door.

Just as I was about to make my expert getaway, Percy caught me. He's a lot stronger than he looks. "What are you doing?" he asked, a bemused and panic-stricken expression on his face. Of course, the look on his face was nothing compared to the look on mine.

"Well, I'm not going to _stay_," I hissed, quickly looking around for signs of a bushy-haired girl with an axe. "What were you thinking dragging me to Hermione's birthday party? A writhing pit of snakes, sure. Front row seats to _Fear Factor: Vomit Edition_—fantastic. A double date with Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler—great, sure, _whatever_. But _this_? I would rather be roasted alive than be here right now."

"I don't understand—Hermione's one of your old students," Percy said, furrowing his brow. "What's wrong with attending one of your students' birthday parties?"

"Well, the fact that she _hates_ me might be one thing," I said. There was a faint hum of noise coming from beyond the hallway, but no one had seemed to notice that Percy and I had arrived. I grabbed Percy's hand and was about to drag him off to discuss his idiocy when a redheaded woman—Mrs. Weasley, I assumed, from Percy's mortified gasp of _Mum_—festively entered the room, effectively interrupting the dragging process.

"Percy! It's so nice to see you!" she said, smothering him in a hug while I stepped aside and counted off ways I was going to punish her son forever. "You've grown so tall, and so—so thin," she cooed worriedly. "Have you been eating? You look so pale—"

"Mum!" Percy exclaimed, suddenly, embarrassedly, shooting me a look of uncomfortable desperation at me, the only person who could have possibly been feeling more uncomfortable and desperate than him. Mrs. Weasley followed her son's gaze, looking at me with a critical stare which terrified me more than Steven Tyler eating cockroaches in a vat of snakes ever could. "I see you've brought a friend," she said.

I immediately straightened my posture. "Fleur Delacour," I introduced myself, extending my hand.

Mrs. Weasley looked furious, pleased, alarmed, surprised, and as if she had known it all along in the space of a second. "Well," she said, smiling at Percy and watching me suspiciously, "it's always nice to meet one of Percy's girlfriends."

My eyes widened. "Girl—?"

"Lovely to see you too, Mum!" Percy interrupted, grabbing my hand and nearly twisting my fingers off. "I have to talk to Fleur for just one tiny little second," he smiled as Mrs. Molly Weasley exited the room, throwing me a chilling look over her shoulder as she left to sound the alarm and no doubt smother more offspring. As soon as she disappeared, Percy shoved me into the nearest linen closet.

"I'm going to kill you, Percy," I told him as he shut the door. "I'm going to kill you and then I'm going… I'm going… I'm going to disorganize your tie collection!"

"Fleur, _what is the big deal?_" he asked.

_What's the big deal? What's the big deal! _

"Have you read Page Four lately? Can you read at all?" I shouted before realizing that I was in a house where the walls had both ears and red hair. "No _seriously_," I whispered as angrily as possible. "How could it just slip your mind that Hermione wants me _dead_ for her birthday?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Percy insisted, poking his head out of the door apprehensively and then slamming the door back shut. "I don't read Page Four—I throw that part of the _Prophet_ away. What's going on with you and Hermione?"

I turned red. "Never mind. I just—I just really can't be here right now." Before I could come up with a rare mutation of the plague and disappear into the mid-afternoon, Percy let out a strangled cry, like a dying cat or a Muggle realizing they were seated on yet another exploding toilet.

"You can't _leave_ me here!" Percy said urgently. I looked at him, surprised. "I haven't spoken to my family in God knows how long—I wouldn't be here if I didn't think there'd be someone here on my side—I thought that was you—"

"Percy, I'm on your side but—"

"For four days," Percy ploughed on, "just _four days_ could you stick around, please? And try not to upset my mother." Percy sighed and made a movement as if he was about to start pacing before realizing that there was no room to pace. "Oh God, and please don't tell her about my—my being—"

"Gay?" I offered.

"SHHH!!!" Percy exclaimed, once again sticking his head of the door suspiciously and slamming it shut. "I mean, Mum already thinks you're my—" he paused to blush—"… _girlfriend_, so… why don't we just play along?" Percy was looking at me with such imploring eyes that I already felt guilty.

"Fine," I said, "but I hope you know that—"

The door jerked open to reveal a confusingly-expressioned Mrs. Weasley. She was smiling warmly at Percy as if to say "how lovely that you've finally gotten yourself a girl" and looking at me as if those words were followed by "it's just too bad you had to pick this one." Instead of saying either of these things, she called behind her: "I've found them!" She dragged us out of the closet and then turned around completely, glowing as if it were simply the sweetest thing in the world. "Percy and his new girlfriend were in the closet—you know how lovebirds are," she said to her husband, a wholesome looking gentleman with an unfortunate burgundy sweater. He looked a wee bit apologetic while Percy stood mortified. Molly was beaming, I felt captured, and Harry Potter looked appalled.

**4:50 a.m. **– So now I'm lying in bed next to Percy waiting for the rest of the house to awaken. Mrs. Weasley assumed, considering the state of our "relationship," that we'd be sharing a room, so I suppose for the next few days I will be sleeping as clothed as possible next to one of my coworkers.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH MY LIFE?

Dear God. Too much. Must have immediate bubble bath and wash all of my problems away.

**7:00 a.m.** – Ah! The horror! Was in the bathtub, being bubbly, singing to myself, shaving my legs when who should walk in but Harry Potter, awake with no excuse at five a.m., who didn't immediately shut the door and run away to forget the incident, but rather stood there as I aimlessly continued shaving, waiting for _me_ to make him get out. And when I noticed he was there, I sat there, paralyzed, looking at him looking at me. And then I told him to get out.

"Fleur—"

"Get out."

"No, Fleur, wait—please—"

"_GET OUT_."

"I've been trying to talk to you, and you keep ignoring me—"

"_Get out of the bathroom!_" I mean, really he was being ridiculous. Standing there looking at me all sexily, and making it sound like I was the villainous one by robbing him of his chance to re-seduce me. He was being totally ridiculous.

Instead, he walked in and sat on the edge of the bathtub. "Fleur, what I've been trying to tell you—"

"You know, those pity chocolates you sent me were pretty good, almost as good as, oh, I don't know _actually talking to me?_ I mean, whatever—actual conversation is completely over-rated, I agree—"

"Fleur, you aren't hearing a word I'm saying," Harry insisted. The longer he stayed there, the more distracted I became, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore Harry's ASP-trained hotness. Plus, I'm very protective of my right to shave my legs in peace, quiet, and privacy. I decided to throw the soap dish at him, but he whipped out his wand and deflected it. I was secretly relieved—I'd already been a tabloid whore, I wasn't ready to be the girl who wrecked Harry Potter's gorgeous face. "Fine," he said, "but will you at least… tell me one thing—please?" I made no response. "Will you at least tell me why you're dating Percy?"

_Dating Percy? WHAT?_ _Oh, right._

"Because he wouldn't blow me off for some other girl at the party I threw for him." It sort of flew out of my mouth, sounding a lot bitchier than I'd thought it would. Harry had this super-hurt look on his face, all pale and shocked, and with no further comment, he dashed out of the room as if he were going to be sick, and I felt the sort of horrible bubble baths simply cannot fix. So I just ducked my head under the water and pretended I wasn't there.

**7:45 a.m.** – Oh GODDDD, went back to the room to find Percy there, trying to decide whether or not he should wear a tie around his parents. It seems like to Percy this visit is like a job interview, because he's wearing his favorite tie and the stuffiest suit he owns, which I must admit puts him in a category of dress far above his work station and sixty years older than his age. And he was all, "Hello… sweetheart?"

"Ew, don't call me that," I said, wondering where I was going to change now that Percy was living in my room and the bathroom was clearly a haven for disturbances and discomfort.

"BUT, CUPCAKE, WE'VE BEEN SEEING EACH OTHER FOR A WHILE NOW—I DON'T SEE WHY I CAN'T CALL YOU 'SWEETHEART' IN FRONT OF MY PARENTS," Percy said as if he were trying to make himself into a megaphone through sheer willpower. "Do you think they heard me?" he asked in a whisper.

"Yes, I think everyone heard you," I said.

"Fantastic!" Percy exclaimed. "Now… er, Fleur… are you going to go down for breakfast soon?" he asked. "I don't want to go down too early and then be standing there when everyone rushes downstairs or— worse—be dreadfully late for breakfast… I suppose I could go down now, but Fred and George are probably waiting in the corridors to ambush me. Oh, that reminds me—"

"If Fred and George offer me anything, I should run in the other direction. I know." The last I'd seen of Fred and George Weasley, they were knocking back Firewhiskey and making devious plans—but so was I. In actuality, I think we might be kindred spirits. All of us get into inordinate amounts of trouble on a daily basis.

"Shall I escort you down?"

"Escort me?"

"Well, yes, don't boyfriends generally escort girlfriends down for breakfast these days?"

I shrugged and took his arm. I suppose the entire idea behind fake-dating Percy Weasley is just to humor him, because nothing else seems to work.

**9:00 a.m.** – Breakfast was a delicious treat! It turns out Molly Weasley simply had a twitch in her eye last night and she _doesn't_ hate me! Actually, she adores me and would adopt me if I weren't "dating" her son! Bill thinks I'm _soooo _smart and eating breakfast with Harry was _soooo_ not awkward! It was fan-frigging-tastic!

_NOOOOOOOOOT._

Told you I'd bring NOT back.

I arrived downstairs, awkwardly attached to Percy's arm, to find Harry there, sipping his tea in a way that sharply called to mind the day I accepted his offer of tea after he saved me from Draco's lewd advances. While Harry sipped tea and refused to look at me, Molly Weasley wouldn't take her hawk-like eyes off of the pair of us—and Harry—darting this way and that like a suspicious cat. Finally, Percy made the effort to say a "good morning" that came out as more of a "gmhh murfnunng," which I had to translate. Mrs. Weasley's response was, naturally, "Well, look who's arrived for breakfast! Percy, I've already told you: you look too thin. Fleur, I'm sure you've already eaten?"

"No, actually," I said. Usually houses have curtains and dark corridors in which to hide, but it seemed all of my exits were blocked. "I haven't."

Mrs. Weasley mustered an "oh" and set another place at the table as if I were some sort of surprise guest. Hermione put her newspaper down to coldly stare at me for the most fleeting of seconds before deciding that I was certainly not worth her time, putting up the newspaper screen again. The first truly civilized words were out of Arthur Weasley's mouth.

"Percy told me last night that you work in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office! Why that's fascinating! I don't know why I haven't seen you there! And—_and_, what's better," he said, turning around to look at the entire breakfast table as if he were waiting for their extremely pleased expressions (ones that didn't exist), "she _lived_ with Muggles."

Hermione immediately turned to Harry. "So, I was talking to my parents the other day," she began, completely randomly, "and they were discussing telephones. I'd almost forgotten about all that—now isn't that strange?"

"Oh telephones! I bet you had a _telephone_, didn't you? I mean, when you lived with the Muggles." Much to Hermione's disappointment, Arthur was directing this query in my direction as I timidly buttered my toast in the chair next to Percy, who was absent-mindedly straightening his carefully picked tie. "Oh, one of those _cell phones_, right?"

"Um, yes," I said, not wanting to draw any attention to myself, rather in the way that targets don't paint _themselves_ red. "I mean, I guess, sort of."

"Fascinating! You know, lately in the office, the main concern has been with enchanting those new small radio-type things—the _iBean_," Arthur said, nodding his head with confident authority.

"Arthur, let's not bother Percy's friend with Ministry talk," Molly said.

"Why, Fleur!" said Percy far too jauntily to be natural. "Didn't you bring your little pink iBean along with you?"

The look on Mr. Weasley's face was that of a child in a toy store on Christmas Day. I nodded, looking around for absent approval. "I could… I could show how it works, you know, if you want?" There's definitely one clear way to win over this Weasley.

Arthur leapt up, like Jane Fonda in an eighties work out video.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Weasley barked. "_Arthur_," she said, more softly this time, "don't forget about eating breakfast." She turned to me. "Now, Fleur, would you kindly pass that knife?"

Subtle.

Meanwhile Harry was staring at me intently mouthing something that I couldn't make out. I sunk down in my chair, thinking that maybe _butter_ was the answer to my problems, stuffing a piece of toast into my mouth.

Bill Weasley took the opportunity to introduce himself. "Um, hello, Fleur," he said, giving a tiny wave that I tentatively reciprocated. "My name's Bill—I'm a crisp maker."

"Oh, well that's lovely!" I said, loving food being my main occupation and being desperate to please anyone. "What's it like to make crisps?"

The entire table stared me, all wrinkle-nosed and eye-rolling-ly disdainfully-faced. "Well, I've never made crisps, actually," Bill said. "In my experiences unlocking the secrets to various spells, none of them have ever really involved _crisps_."

_Merde_, he said "curse breaker," now didn't he? I am buying myself a hearing aid as soon as possible.

"Right, right," I said, smiling nervously, stuffing more bread into my mouth to prevent myself from saying anything else stupid. Meanwhile, Harry and Hermione were having a simply _jolly_ conversation at the other end of the table while she tried (not very hard) to unglue her hand from his arm.

"If I were a fruit, I think I'd be a strawberry," she was saying for _absolutely no reason whatsoever_. "What fruit would you be, Harry?" _Oh, Harry, my hand is stuck your arm and our knees seemed to be glued together, whatever shall we do?_

"Um… oh I don't know… a watermelon?" It was sort of exactly like when I made Jacques take that "_What Flavor of Lip Gloss Are You?"_ Quiz in _Witch Weekly_ and he read through it, eyes wide, protesting that he preferred neither stilettos nor flats.

Hermione was in full-scale laugh track now. Oh giggle, giggle. "Harry, you're far too handsome to be a watermelon," she said, falling all over Harry but looking at me with eyes that Greek myth tells you not to look into. "No… what about—"

"Fleur!" Harry called out desperately, so intimately perhaps that I may or may not have upset my plate and spilled it all over myself as Mrs. Weasley looked on judiciously. "Fleur," he said, calmly now, "What sort of fruit do you think you are?"

I thought about it; I don't know why on earth I thought about it, but I did. Watermelon was already tainted with weakness, apples were too generic—I looked in despair at the bowl of fruit before me. "An orange," I said.

"Round and bitter," Hermione said instantly. "Don't you agree, Charlie—that oranges are round and bitter?" And in this, she wasn't even talking to me—she was simply making an offhand assessment about the nature of citrus fruit, and _no_, that wasn't a shot at me at all.

"No, I wouldn't say bitter," Charlie said, assessing the statement. I hadn't been formally introduced to him, but I'd read somewhere—or perhaps Percy had told me—that he worked with dragons in Romania and handled the dragons involved in that miserable First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. "Not bitter… _acrid?_" He cocked his head as if the true adjective to describe oranges was an elusive mystery of life that needed to be solved by the sleuths of the Weasley family _right now_. "I don't know—what do you say, Bill?"

"No, not acrid…" he shifted in his seat and briefly stroked his chin. Bill would definitely be on my hot list if he didn't think I was an idiot and if I didn't refer to his occupation as a "crisp maker." It's rather too bad, because he has amazing taste in dragon-hide boots. "I would say more… sour?"

"No, not _sour_—tart," said Mrs. Weasley.

"You know," Percy offered, "I've always thought of you as more of a mango." Hermione looked at him with a crumpled eyebrow that said he'd missed the point completely while I was thankful that Percy was either too kind or too oblivious to compete in this Bash-Fest on me—I mean: oranges.

"Like that perfume of yours—" Harry started to say before he thought not to mention it, and I looked up to see him say it, and it was a horrible moment which caused more eye-darting from Molly Weasley, who I'm sure is an avid reader of _Witch Weekly_ and _The Snitch Report_ and hates mango-scented perfumes. Harry cleared his throat and took the toast-stuffing approach to life, which I am a definite advocate for.

"Oh! Harry—I don't know if we've introduced—I mean, I'm sure you know each other from Triwizard—world-saving—Fleur Delacour?" Arthur chattered excitedly, shuffling around the breakfast table pouring out cups of tea in a fatherly host sort of way.

"Um, yes, we've—"

"You've met, haven't you?" Mrs. Weasley smiled. "You must have known each other before, working together to defeat Lord Voldemort and everything. I read all about it in the _Prophet_ interview you gave—not much detail, but still—I gather you two do know each other well, don't you?"

"Oh do you?" Percy exclaimed happily. I'm beginning to think that whenever he doesn't know what to do with his emotions around his family, he decides on becoming excitedly delighted about everything even if it's something as mundane as fruit and newspapers. "That's lovely! Why didn't you tell me about that?"

Hermione snorted before switching gears. "Harry, do you remember that time First Year when we descended into that trap door and saved the Sorcerer's Stone?" she said in a horrid fawning tone.

"How _did_ you and Harry meet, Fleur? Oh—oh! Did you—erm—make a _telephone call?_" inquired a "_fascinated!"_ Mr. Weasley, coming around to me to pour me a cup of tea. What an adorable character.

"Actually, no… I mean, we met I suppose at the Triwizard Tournament… but that was ages ago, and I didn't see him again until I came to Hogwarts to be a teaching assistant. Eventually I was promoted to being the Potions Mistress, so, I suppose that's how we met," I said, looking alternately at my feet, hands, and the enrapturing pattern of the tablecloth.

"Well, yes, and ASP," Harry mentions, before his eyes start to take over his entire head and he frantically begins stuffing bread into his mouth. For fear he'd run out, I withdrew my wand and sent him three more slices of toast.

"ASP?" Molly asked curiously.

"ASP!" Percy squealed in ecstasy.

"Yes, Harry, ASP?" Hermione asked. Then her eyes turned red and she promptly devoured the entire Weasley family with her razor-sharp teeth.

"I didn't say anything," Harry said, starting on his fourth piece of toast. "Fleur, did I say anything?"

"You know what? I didn't hear anything actually," I nodded, and then, when the table started to peer inquisitively at me, I started frantically drinking the entire contents of my teacup.

"Oh Harry, is that what all those late-night meetings were about?" Ron piped up. Oh God, being his roommate, of course he knew… I heard a dull thud underneath the table as the youngest Mister Weasley convulsed in pain.

"What late night meetings?" Hermione demanded.

"I didn't say anything," Ron said weakly. "Pass the toast, Harry?"

"And I didn't hear anything!" chimed Harry, who was beginning to look a little sick. Like mine, his stomach was going to revolt if he didn't leave the room soon. Lucky Ron was only just starting on his mouth-stuffing endeavor. Harry obligingly passed Ron the toast tray.

"Wasn't that on your job application, Fleur—lovey? Cupcake? Something about Alternative Self Protection training? Were you training Harry for something?" my "boyfriend" asked. (**NTS **– Give Percy a thorough talk about the use of pet names like _cupcake_ and _lovey_.)

"PERCY!" I shrieked, turning to him. He gave me a little "what did I do?" expression and I decided to make my exit, rising from the breakfast table. "Breakfast was divine," I said to Mrs. Weasley, "but if you'll excuse me, I have to—" Harry was mouthing something at me again and intensely confusing me in the midst of my getaway speech. "Harry?"

"Harry?" Hermione asked. By now she should be used to random girls randomly saying Harry's name.

"Hairy! My legs are hairy! I have to go shave!" I shouted manically, waving my hands in the air, possibly in a subconscious attempt to smack myself into sensibility.

Harry laughed. "Fleur, you just finished shaving your legs in the—I mean, go ahead!"

"Exactly!" I said frantically, sprinting from the room. Never eating breakfast again—will be wonderful; no chocolate and no breakfast—I'll sit in my room sipping weak tea while Percy calls everything magnificent and refers to me as _lovey_ for the rest of our stay here.

**12 NOON** – Perhaps is safe to sneak back downstairs, steal something from the pantry, and then retreat back into my/Percy's room—and then I can stay there until around six, when I will sneak down to grab a very small, portable dinner. New diet! Am only eating what I can carry from the pantry in a span of five minutes! _Brilliant!_

**1:00 p.m.** – Definitely rating my idea to go back downstairs as a negative two (which, by the way, is the size I will be by the end of this visit as I _could not get lunch_). I was sneaking down the stairs, peeking through the banister, occasionally falling to the floor to listen for the sounds of footsteps then crawling back up to find the most secure method of getting into the pantry. The Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione were already having lunch—Hermione was being perfectly lovely in every way. She spoke and laughter rippled around her like she was the fountain of wit, and I wondered if I'd ever been the fountain of wit at any function, Weasley or otherwise. I was about to make my daring foray into the unknown when Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out like a beacon or vicious ostrich call. "So, Percy how long have you and Fleur been dating?"

Damn, what I _should have done_ was to send Percy downstairs to get food _for _me. Now that would have been brilliant.

"Oh, about a month, I should say," Percy said. I could tell from the sound of his voice that he was wondering why toast wasn't served at lunch. "Why?"

"Oh Percy, don't you find she's a bit of a… Scarlet Woman?" said Mrs. Weasley, giving out a frustrated sigh. Don't you think that phrase has been out of use for about seven hundred years? "I mean, just look at what the papers say about her, the things she's done? Honestly, Percy."

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, "the papers have been wrong about a lot of things in the last few years." This statement called to mind when Harry was a fame-hungry lunatic and when Voldemort "simply wasn't a problem anymore." It also, and very effectively, silenced Mrs. Molly Weasley.

Up until the point that it didn't.

"What exactly did it say in the papers?" Percy asked, and I urgently wanted to throw my shoe at him.

"Oh Percy," Mrs. Weasley began, the way she seemed to begin everything directed towards Percy. "Well, of course she didn't tell you."

"What is there to tell?" Percy asked, all innocently. I was feeling this urge to dive across the table and clamp Mrs. Weasley's mouth shut. It appeared that Percy's thought bubble about me was about to be popped. "Mum?"

"She's…" I could tell she was looking at Harry and that Harry was doing his best to stare absently at the wall. "Well, she's been involved in a number of embarrassing incidents which have disgraced everyone involved, undermining various relationships which mean so much to this family—" Here I could tell she was looking at Harry and Hermione sitting together, very photogenic, very Couple of the Year. "It's fine if you speak with her at work, dear, but I certainly do _not_ approve of you dating her. And more importantly: she does _not_ belong in this house."

"Mother!" Percy shouted in a shocked response, the way he would react if we were _really_ going out. "Well, it doesn't matter if you approve our going out or not, because we are," he said, resolutely, and I could tell he was mustering all of his courage to even speak. The wrath of mothers is, naturally, one of the most frightening phenomena on earth. "She's nice, Mum, she's a really nice girl—"

"After what she nearly did to Harry and Hermione, I'm surprised you can forgive her," Mrs. Weasley said stuffily with a little sniff. I wish I could hear napkins being thrown down on the table at the injustice of the world, because I would love to confirm that Mrs. Weasley had done just that.

"What—_what _did she do to Harry and Hermione, Mother?" Percy asked. Once again my hand was reflexively reaching for my shoe and I was preparing to skid over the plates and silverware.

Before Mrs. Weasley said anything, I heard Harry's voice. "Mrs. Weasley, you're not being fair."

"Harry, don't try to take the blame for her—"

"There's nothing to blame her for!" he shouted. I admit—I quaked a little behind the banister. That was either the shouting or Harry's defending my honor, and I'm not quite sure if I was quaking from fear or from wanting to jump Mister Potter there and then. How very Halcius Pottotius of him.

"I beg to differ," Hermione's smart little voice sounded.

"Hermione, we differ about a lot of things lately," Harry said. There was some shuffling of silverware, and then footsteps. _Oh really? _And how long exactly had they been differing on things, because that aspect of their relationship certainly hadn't appeared in the tabloids as often as my Harry's-underwear shots had.

It was Fred's voice—or George's—now. "Mum, Harry's right. You haven't even given her a chance." I poked my head beyond the banister out of curiosity—it was George.

"Why are you defending her?" Hermione snapped.

"Because she sounds like fun," George replied.

"Because she's hot," Fred added.

I was just laughing to myself when I heard a little gasp. "Fleur?" Harry was standing at the foot of the staircase as I crouched uncomfortably. I turned and, in my infinite poise and grace, started to tumble down the steps. I am starting to wish that Harry hadn't caught me, because… God, there are things one just can't afford.

"Umm, Harry." I was definitely going to say more than "umm, Harry," but then I realized I didn't know what so say. _I enjoyed the show?_ He started to put me down, but I latched my arms around his neck in a brief Hermione-esque gesture. Then I realized what I was doing, mumbled thank you and rushed up the stairs.

**2:00 p.m.** – _Merde. Merde, merde, merde… _he's knocking on my door, he's knocking on my door… should I answer or should I just… _MERDE!_

**3:45 p.m.** – I let him in. Oh God. He was just banging on my door and I was sitting on the bed watching the door and wondering why he didn't just _Alohomora _it open. And finally, I got up and opened the door, stopping Harry mid-knock.

"Can I come in?" he asked hesitantly.

"Harry, you're already halfway in the room," I said. He looked at his feet. "Yes, you can come in," I said. The manners of the British are infuriating, absolutely so.

"I'm so sorry," he began, sitting on the bed and then jumping up as if it were on fire. "You shouldn't have… I never meant for you to hear all of that, you never should have, and Mrs. Weasley never should have said all those things about you. I'm… I'm so…"

"Harry, it's okay," I said.

"Fleur, it's not okay," Harry said. He looked so absolutely ashamed of himself and the situation that I wanted to get up and give him a hug, but throwing my arms around him seemed like a super horrid idea, especially in the bedroom Percy and I were sharing, however uncomfortably. "I've… oh God, I've been trying to talk to you, and I understand that you're mad at me, but please—I've sent you letters every day since the party—"

"What?" _Letters?_ _Lettres? Letras? Letteras ? __Buchstabes? _

"I understand if—"

"Harry, I never got any letters." _Nope, not one, not a singular epistolary message_.

"I put them outside your door," Harry elaborated, but I was simply envisioning my completely empty door-floor. And then, suddenly, what appeared in my mind was the fact that I hadn't gotten my _Witch Weekly_ in several weeks. Usually, Poussière drops it off at the apartment door first thing and then hoots until I come to get her. Admittedly, I'm rather slow to get her, but still…

"Someone's been tampering with my mail!" I said, having a Eureka moment.

_I wonder who?_

"Oh God," Harry muttered. "Listen, Fleur." Harry was suddenly very close to me, I realized, as he opened his mouth to say something. I started to say something about mail again, but he interrupted me. Our noses were close to touching, he had one arm around my waist. "I just need you to know that I'm not with Hermione, despite what you might think. That's what I've been trying to tell you this whole time."

"Oh."

I always know just the right thing to say.

"You're right," Harry said. "Now that you're with Percy that probably doesn't matter."

I felt my stomach rise into my throat. I hated Percy. _Hated_ Percy. Harry sighed and then let me go, which he should for the record _never ever_ do again, and started towards the door. Part of me—no, all of me—wanted to scream out that Percy and I were absolutely nothing, but then I'd have to explain why I was pretending to be dating him… and then Percy, naturally, would never forgive me.

WORST WEEKEND EVER.

**Day Two-Hundred-Twenty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Sunday, September 17th, 2005**

**Day 3 of the Worst Weekend Ever**

**5:10 AM**

**5:10 a.m. **– UGGGHHHHHHHHH. There I was! In Harry's arms and he was definitely leaning—it wasn't just me, he was _definitely_ leaning—and then_ Percy_. Excuse me while I turn over and look at the face that's launched a thousand regrets.

**5:20 a.m. – **Agh, hating Percy and am close to desperately heading for the shower in hopes Harry will walk in. Though all sort of X-rated things would probably happen if he did, which I would normally be all for except for the fact that it would be in the Weasleys' bathtub, which is _gross_. And he'd think we were conducting an affair underneath Percy's nose, and his goddamn integrity wouldn't let him do that. I think the whole world could do with a little less integrity sometimes.

**6:00 a.m.** – Just took a bath that Harry did not participate in. What a waste of water.

**6:30 a.m.** – Breakfast. I am charting the progress of Harry's seat position in my head. The first night he sat one person away from me (the person getting in between us was Percy, naturally), the second day he made a point of always being three seats away from me (Percy, Molly, Hermione), and today he is as far away from me as he can possibly be without getting closer to me again, which means today he is five people away from me today (Percy, Molly, Arthur, Bill, Hermione).

_Merde_, I've been reduced to counting the number of chairs separating us.

**7:45 a.m.** – "Percy, we need to have a conversation," I said, standing in the doorway in the foreboding manner that all "girlfriends" should when in the presence of their "boyfriends."

"Conversation is key to thriving relationships!" Percy said loudly to the wall. "Do you think they h—?"

"Yes, Perce, they _definitely_ heard that." I reviewed everything in my head: what I was going to say, how I was going to say it, how I was definitely not going to start shouting that I needed to get stuck with Harry in a dark room as soon as possible before I exploded. "Percy… we need to talk about Harry."

"Oh yes—he was staring at you over breakfast. I was going to ask you about that."

"He was?" Oh God, I would have definitely been looking around attentively if I'd know he was looking at _me_, instead of stupidly thinking about furniture placement!

"Yes," Percy said resolutely, "but now I need to go take a—" I yanked away from the door by the neck of his collar and stared at him meaningfully. Percy's one of those predictable people—it seems I'm constantly surprising him… perhaps my look was a bit _too_ meaningful?

"We need to talk about Harry. As in we _need_ to talk about Harry," I said. "I mean, what your mother said… about me in the papers, you know—that wasn't true, but parts of it—you need to know about—you need to know about me and Harry." I think being around Percy has made me inclined to stutter and be awkward.

"All right," Percy said, shrugging and reaching behind him to readjust his collar. "But wait a minute—"

"Yes, I heard all of those things your mother said about me—I don't care," I said, which was not exactly true, but true enough for the purposes of the conversation, as couples should learn very quickly to lie to each other. "The thing is, what she was talking about was that a few months ago, some pictures appeared of me in the paper, er… wearing his underwear." Percy's eyes are going to be rolling on the floor if he continues to make that wide-eyed face at me. I will have to warn him of that in the future. "But it wasn't like that! It was only that my psycho sister stole them, because she wanted to sell them at auction—but then she returned them and—! Oh, it doesn't matter. The point is, there was nothing going on like that—but now I… well, I sort of _want_ there to be something going on like that."

Percy's eyes widened and then shrunk with understanding. "I see," he said gravely, as if suddenly the stock market had skidded to a halt.

"And there sort of is—I mean that Hermione has a reason to hate me—I mean, she's seen us kissing—the whole wizarding world has seen us kissing—well, except you—but the thing is, Harry won't pursue me, if… if there's you."

"_OH_," Percy said, picking up the _Daily Prophet_ and putting on his socks—a gesture that was both ridiculously neat and weirdly comforting. "Well, I suppose… we might be running into some romantic troubles in about a week or so?"

I rushed up to him as he was pulling his sock over his left foot and knocked him over with a gigantic hug. "Percy, you are without a _doubt_ my favorite Weasley!"

Percy grinned. "Can't say I've heard that before."

**10:00 a.m.** – Because Hermione Granger's _goddamn birthday_ is tomorrow, the entire Weasley family is bustling around, trying to get ready. Arthur is apparently doing nothing, but doing nothing very excitedly; Percy is picking out matching suit and tie sets for tomorrow, making me think _gay, gay, gay, _constantly inside my head; Hermione is pretending not to know what's going on and doing so complacently; Fred and George are snooping with Extendable Ears; and _Harry won't look at me._

The thing is, he's _just like Halcius Pottotius_, always adhering to that _goddamn _code of chivalry—stupid rules like don't randomly kill people and lust after your best friend's brother's girlfriends—as if the world wouldn't be better without those rules! Well, I mean, not the one about randomly killing people, because that one is pretty necessary. My point is: because Harry is a hero, e.g. Peter Parker or Clark Kent, he won't do immoral things like say… Mary Jane or Lois Lane might. So while I would cheat _my_ boyfriend in a heart beat to rip off his clothes and have sex _now_, he won't let me because I belong to someone else.

And now it's Hermione Granger GODDAMN BIRTHDAY and I'm the unwanted guest and no one will let touch anything.

**12 NOON** – "Are you sure there's no way I could help out? I could put up streamers?" I offered weakly, hating the feeling of being the lazy girl who dropped in. Mrs. Weasley simply stared coldly at me, as one would stare at a parasite asking to live on your skin. "I could… I could bake something?" Somewhere in the room, someone snorted.

"Well," she began, "I'm going out for wrapping paper, and Bill and Charlie are going out to buy Hermione a present. Ron's taking Hermione out to lunch and Arthur's been called away on emergency Ministry business, so—" she looked at me and once again sniffed indifferently. "I suppose I could leave you and Percy to make the cake—I'm sure Harry will want to go out to lunch with Her—"

"I already ate," Harry chimed, miraculously eating a piece of toast in the afternoon. I'm beginning to think that lifeguards should begin throwing toast into the water instead of life-preservers when trying to save someone—toast is a million times more effective. "I'm okay with staying here to bake the cake."

Mrs. Weasley looked extremely perturbed and for what seemed like entire minutes, she didn't blink. "All right," she said suspiciously, glaring at Percy in a _totally obvious way _that says: "DON'T LEAVE THEM ALONE! DON'T LEAVE THEM ALONE!" which is sound but unfortunate advice.

**6:30 p.m.** – He left us alone. _Wow_, Percy, how _brilliant_ was it to _"go upstairs to read a magazine" for four hours?_ Um… actually, pretty brilliant now that I think about it…

At first there was some awkward standing around, in which I said "um" around fifteen times, occasionally extending it to "ummmm…" when I was feeling _particularly_ articulate, before Harry got up and wandered around to me in the enormously empty Weasley living room to say, "So, do you want to bake this cake now?" And I, breathless from _breathing_, said yes and followed him into the kitchen as Percy skittered upstairs to do something that sounded like "gmhh murfnunng ties murfnunng."

So, in this kitchen, this messy kitchen with the _huge_ countertop and large open spaces, we stood, staring at a mixing bowl. "So... are we making this cake from...?"

"Scratch," Harry said. He was wearing this adorable button-down that whispered "rip me open please" during the entire conversation. "Mrs. Weasley thought Hermione would appreciate it more if we baked the cake the Muggle way, like the Grangers might," Harry said, leaning on the countertop while I resisted the urge to repeat the sink incident.

"Oh, okay," I said nervously, examining what I was wearing. Because I am an idiot, I was wearing jeans that make me look like a pregnant cow and a shirt that looks like I am trying unsuccessfully to hide it. "So"—favorite word of the month—"I suppose... I've never really cooked before actually. I mean, I made dinner a few nights ago, but I burned it and we ordered in Chinese," I murmured, doing my best not to look Harry in his deliciously sexy green eyes. Deliciously? Is everything in my world about food?

Harry laughed. "Well, Mrs. Weasley left instructions, so it should be pretty simple," he said, and I wondered if I could work a fast enough memory spell to make him forget about it if I spontaneously leapt on him.

"Okay," I said tentatively instead, reaching for the sheet of paper lying on the counter. Since, quite obviously, cooking is what I was put on this earth to do, it was no big deal comprehending Molly Weasley's instructions. "What on _earth_ does this say?" I asked Harry.

He laughed again and took the sheet, pacing around the kitchen in his adorable white button-down which one day, God-willing, will stop trying to seduce me. He was saying an array of things, none of which I heard, and I blinked dumbly as an egg flew by my head into Harry's hands. "Careful," he warned. At this point, I really wanted to sleep with him. So as I was thinking about sleeping with him, he was breaking eggs and asking me to hand him items which I handed to him without knowing what said items were. There were teaspoons and tablespoons and granulated sugar and cups of milk flying by my head at all times as Harry followed the directions and I shifted my weight, wondering if I could find some way to escape.

Mostly—_mostly_—I was thinking about sex. You know. Because I've never had it. And I was thinking about, well, exactly what would happen if I suddenly told Harry what was going on with Percy. And what his reaction would be, and if, perhaps, this reaction might occur on the Weasley's kitchen table or if there was a hotel within a six-mile radius of Ottery St. Catchpole.

"Okay, let's do it."

"_What?"_ I gracefully fell over.

"Put it in the oven. Let's put the cake in the oven," Harry clarified. I was covered in flour, but I was absolutely sure it was contraband cocaine—_positive _it was cocaine.

"Right."

**7:00 p.m.** – And then we took one of those horrid "wait for the cake to bake" breaks, which are awkward and uncomfortable and wrong on so many levels, and we were alone as Percy was no doubt upstairs laughing at political cartoons and doing his daily financial crossword, or something like that. So we sat down at the empty breakfast table, with no toast to build a carbohydrate wall between us, and we stared meaningfully (ergo, awkwardly) at each other. I mean, yes, Harry's awkward stares are loads more attractive than say, Remus Lupin's awkward stares, but they're still awkward.

"Listen—"

"Harry."

That always happens. When you start to break the awkward silence, but you're just so skilled that you try to do it at the same time as the other person, thereby creating a _surplus_ of awkwardness. So Harry and I took some time to wallow in the awkward surplus before trying again.

"Fleur, I know that this weekend has been more than odd for you, and I'm really sorry about that, but I think there' s been a huge misunderstanding between us—"

"Harry, that's just what I wanted to talk to you about," I spoke up. Maybe Percy and I would run into romantic troubles a week earlier than planned? "This entire business about Percy and I—me and Percy—Percy and me—" I was trying to say something meaningful and the only words that would come out of my mouth were being garbled by foggy memories of Jacques's grammar lessons. "All right _us_—but remember that I don't really _mean_ 'us'—that's the exact opposite of what I mean, which is that we're not an 'us'—"

Harry leaned across the table and started kissing me, and I didn't know what to do in all my surprise, so I started kissing him back, which was _fantastical_, so I kept on doing it, even though I was covered in flour and wearing too-tight jeans and should have been watching the cake. And so we were kissing at the breakfast table, and then suddenly we were _really_ kissing at the breakfast table, at which point Harry decided that I was far too far away and pulled me into his lap, which is pretty much when we moved on to really_, really_ kissing at the breakfast table. And _just_ when I thought that really, _really_ kissing at the breakfast table was going to be the extent of our kissing, suddenly we were kissing _on_ the breakfast table, which is another matter entirely.

"Fleur! This article in the _DP_ really _is_ _TOO_ funny, you _must_ read it dear!" Percy announced while waltzing down the stairs in his silk smoking jacket, which is useless, as he does not smoke. He stopped abruptly when he realized that I was _on_ the breakfast table. "It's about horizontal mergers," Percy said, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

Harry must have thought Percy's face was turning red from anger, as he leapt off of me and put his hands up in the air rather the way criminals do on reruns of _Cops_. "I—I—"

"Fleur, you have a little flour right here," Percy remarked, patting his nose. I stood in silence contemplating my nose. "Oh Fleur," he laughed, whipping a handkerchief (_handkerchief?_) out of the breast pocket of his silk smoking jacket and dabbing my nose with it, "what am I going to do with you?" Harry looked on in horror.

"Oh, I don't know—buy me a monogrammed handkerchief of my own, perhaps?" I smiled—as Harry looked on in horror, shock, and disbelief.

Percy grinned. "Well, chicken, I'll certainly have to think about that one," he said, kissing my forehead. "Carry on." Harry stared blankly as Percy walked back up the stairs.

"He calls you _chicken_?" Harry asked.

"Percy and I have a very interesting relationship to say the least," I smiled in return, wiping my nose self-consciously in rather the way that girls with colds and crack-whores do.

Harry was having a relatively mild nervous breakdown. "And he didn't notice that—? Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Fleur—I don't know what came over me—"

"I don't care what came over you, but please do it again," I replied frankly, noticing how Harry's "rip me, please" shirt had become a "just one more button" shirt. Despite the fact that Harry had stopped seducing me, his shirt had kept on going.

Harry sighed with decency blowing out of both nostrils, while I'm sure crushed cocaine-flour blew out of mine. "I mean, this is… he's my best friend's brother… and… Fleur, you're Percy's girlfriend, and…" And this is where all the _best friend's brother's girlfriend_ crap starts, with all that honesty and morality that screws up everything.

"Harry, haven't you ever wanted to walk on the wild side?" I asked.

**Day Two-Hundred-Thirty-One of Free Independence**

**Wednesday, September 20th, 2005**

**A Few Mornings After**

**6:15 AM**

**6:15 a.m. **– Luckily, at just that moment, the Weasley's oven began to make an irritating beeping noise that signified that the cake celebrating the birth of my most hated enemy had finished baking, after which Percy descended (this time in a differently patterned smoking jacket) to ice the cake to perfection, while I fled to our room to "read the paper." I don't know why I decided on "reading the paper" as my urgent activity, but it always seems to work for Percy. So I left Harry contemplating a little walk on the wild side while I read about Cornelius Fudge's walk on the wild side of Gringotts Wizarding Bank—_bankruptcy anyone?_

Hermione's birthday dinner was horrible. There were presents all around and praises of her… _amazing qualities_… and I was vomiting silently at the other end of the table. However, I did get to play suggestive footsie with Harry the whole time (when Mrs. Weasley's glares didn't cause him to jerk violently and kick my inner thigh), so that more than made up for it… though I will have some interesting bruises to explain.

Now all I have to do is break up with my non-boyfriend and all will be fine…

**12 NOON** – Lunch with Percy. Gratuitous thanks over well-behaved (snort) weekend. Meanwhile, I'm wondering how I'm going to fake break up with him… I think it might involve finding him in bed with his secretary. His secretary's name is James, but that is beside—or perhaps is—the point.

**1:24 p.m.** – Arthur Weasley is waving frantically at me across Ministry. Am standing paralyzed, unable to move any of my limbs, as I keep thinking about all the things I did on his breakfast table. Weakly… raising… arm….

**4:12 p.m.** – Jacques! Jacques won't demand things of me such as "Fleur, so what did you do on the Weasley's breakfast table this weekend?" Instead, Jacques walks up to me, dips me, kisses my flour-whore nose, and says, "How was your weekend, dear?"

"It was _Hermione's birthday_," I say emphatically. Jacques's expression is at once both crestfallen and intrigued, which is why I live with him—because his facial expressions are exactly what I need them to be. "It was horrid—and Mrs. Weasley thought Percy and I were together, so I had to go along with it, and Harry's been writing me _effing letters_, and I didn't know about them! And he thinks I'm with Percy, so he won't effing _shag me_, and Hermione was a smug little witch the entire weekend, and—" I proceeded to collapse into Jacques's arms, where he comforted me for perhaps several hours.

"It's all right, Fleur," he said softly. "I just bought chocolate…"

"Why didn't you say so?" I exclaimed, leaping out of his arms and toward the kitchen. Jacques always knows just how to cheer me up!

**Day Two-Hundred-Thirty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, September 26th, 2005**

**LEAVING, OUT THE DOOR**

**7:38 AM**

**7:38 a.m. **– AM NOT GOING TO BE LATE. Am a top-notch Ministry worker, and sorting telephones is my calling. NOT LATE. No more chocolate—am going to be strict with myself.

**11:12 a.m. – **I was definitely still eating chocolate at 7:50. But I'm going to turn over a new leaf and start to be more responsible, as Percy had to yell at me today when I ran in late, since he was in front of all those stuffy balding snots he works with—but I heard one of them call him Percy _Weasley_ for a change, so I took the whole thing rather lightly. Well, I'm working with pink cell phones today… that's _fascinating_…

**12:30 p.m.** – "So… we have yet to discuss the table incident," Percy said spontaneously at lunch today. His spontaneity is obviously a sign that I am changing him for the better—and they always say you _can't_ change your man. Pish-posh.

"Table incident? What table incident?" I remarked innocently, blinking demurely at my salad. I don't know why I ever get the salad, because I never eat it since I _hate_ salad. And then I'm super hungry after work and end up eating cinnamon coffee cake at the over-expensive _café au coin_. And then I get even fatter… resisting compulsive urge to weigh myself…

"The one that occurred _ON THE BREAKFAST TABLE,_" Percy loudly reminded me as I choked on a tomato and the stuffier-than-pillows-and-greenhouses Mr. Twycross looked over at Percy disapprovingly. Meanwhile, Percy's disapproving look was directed at me.

"Oh, _that_ incident. Well… Harry was looking for a napkin."

"In your _mouth?"_ Percy said in a rather alarmed fashion.

"Percy, I keep lots of things in my mouth—don't pretend to know everything about me," I smiled as I attempted to eat yet another hazardous tomato.

"Well, in that case, could I have a napkin?" Percy asked. What a little twit. He's my favorite.

"You're making me want to break up with you," I replied.

"Eight days," Percy said sternly. Like I didn't catch that smile.

**2:00 p.m.** – Simply couldn't help myself.

_Affolé d'Affaires Courant_

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 140…. _Merde, merde, merde, merde, merde… shit._

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: BREAKFAST TABLES.

Pilates Minutes: BREAKFAST TABLES.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 59. Well, who wouldn't want _that_ for breakfast…

Jude-thinking Minutes: 367. Or that, for that matter… a DVD player came in at the Ministry today; it had some hideous electrocution curse on it, but after that was all fixed, I sat in the lounge and watched _Alfie_ about six times, occasionally setting things on fire and extinguishing them to make it look like I was working. _Chauffeurs… _definitely fantasy _numéro un_ from now on.

HP-thinking Minutes: 310. BREAKFAST TABLES.

HG glares: All goddamn weekend.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 100 to 1.

Overall Day: Breakfast table flashbacks have caused both pain and pleasure… I give it a 6.5.

**7:00 p.m. – **"Honey, I'm home!" I call, flinging open the door to the apartment, feeling very Desi Arnez, very reverse-housewife, very "look who's bringing home the bacon _now_!" Jacques, that amazing creature, ambled out of the living room with that perpetually concerned look on his face and his Clark Kent glasses on.

"Fleur," he began, wielding his correcting pen like a vicious weapon, "if I asked you to translate _eine Schlankheitskur machen_, what would you say? Because it seems some people have no regard for the German language. It's not even a sentence! It's a _phrase_. Who can't handle a _phrase?"_

"So I guess _I'm_ making dinner tonight?" I asked, just to see if Jacques was going to start screaming _oh no, God no_ like he did the last time I made such a suggestion.

"_Ja_, I suppose," Jacques replied, and I am appalled that I recognized his Germinglish as comprehensible. I started to walk into the kitchen. "Though when you finish cooking, don't expect me to lay you down on the dinner table and ravish you—that's not quite my style."

"I _hate _you!" I shouted, throwing a spatula at him. (**NTS** – Never tell Jacques anything. Ever.)

No. _He's_ my favorite.

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, so the concept of updating is completely foreign to me, but: 1) I have _sexcellent_ things planned for the next chapter, and 2) SPRING BREAK is coming, and that means obsessive chapter writing! Yay! _Ne me detestez pas!_

And remember, when Spring Break hits, reviews equal updates!

Love,

Femme Teriyaki


	20. October: Coming Out of the Closet

**October:** Coming Out of the Closet

* * *

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Two of Free Independence**

**Monday, October 2****nd****, 2005**

**Hideously Surprised**

**8:44 AM**

**8:44 a.m. **– I sit here, irresponsibly, at the Ministry, wracked by a problem which has nothing to do with the batch of fire-breathing vacuum cleaners we received from Berwickshire this morning. This morning, as I was walking into the bathroom in my usual morning haze, yesterday's sock plastered to my forehead in the usual "I look more hung-over than I am" way, wondering why anyone lets me drink on Sundays, I found _not _two aspirins and a martini glass filled with water, but Jacques—Jacques saying the most hideous things my ears have ever heard. He was standing there, very _Risky Business_ in his rumpled Oxford and dorky white socks, but practicing saying very _Jerry Maguire _"you complete me" things to the mirror. "I don't know how to say this," he was saying nervously, holding a cup of coffee over the bathroom sink, "but I'm in love with you. I always have been—ever since high school. God, I've been in love with you practically all of my life—" At this point, I abruptly turned around and fled, since I now needed to find another bathroom to throw up in. Jacques is going to tell Janine he loves her, and I am going to die.

**9:20 a.m.** – He does not _love _her. He _thinks_ her loves her. He loves to _do_ her, perhaps, but he does not love her. Right? Right. I'm so right.

**10:00 a.m.** – Jesus, he loves her. Why did I never notice this? Why did I see their relationship as just chain-sex and broken presents when day by day, while I was off being a whore at Hogwarts and a slut in Ottery St. Catchpole, they were falling madly and deeply in love with each other! Why was I so inexplicably _blind?_ No wonder Jacques had to escape my presence for a month—he simply couldn't handle my disparaging comments and tactless gagging at the mention of his true love's name! I've been such a huge bitch… whose best friend wants to basically marry her other (not much of a) friend. _Merde._ _Merde_ on toast.

**12 NOON** – "Fleur, you seem a little distracted," Percy remarks, casually checking out the new intern, Brian. I, however, was too disconcerted to even look at Brian—which, I suspect, prompted this remark. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, looking downwards and picking forlornly at a wilted cabbage leaf. "I'm just thinking about something."

"You look like you've lost your best friend," Percy said, watching as Brian dropped a large stack of papers and bent over to pick them up. At just that moment, a great and terrible sun abruptly dawned on me, right in the middle of the Ministry of Magic, right in front of Intern Brian's taut little ass: that after Jacques tells Janine he loves her, I probably will.

**4:23 p.m. – **"Don't be melodramatic," Jacques said, crossing his arms and giving me a tutor-glare that I'm sure sends shivers down the spines of even his most apt Latin students.

"I'm not being melodramatic," I whined melodramatically, fainting backwards into a couch. "I just think it would be nice if I cooked dinner tonight. I mean, don't _best friends_ cook each other dinner?" This whole dinner thing is my incredibly subtle plan to remind Jacques that we will always be best friends; so far, I don't think he's caught on. Tomorrow night: Operation Cordon Bleu.

"I suppose so, but if we both want to live past thirty, then maybe I should be in charge of cooking dinner?" Despite the fact that we are indeed best friends, it really annoys me that Jacques seems to think that he is Julia Child just because he can make macaroni and cheese once a week. However, if he decides he does not love Janine after all, I would gladly reconsider these annoyances. I handed him the cookbook with a smile, because I am working on my expressions and have perfected a new one that says "I am the perfect best friend, so when a force of pure evil tries to snatch you away from me, you won't succumb to the wiles of the devil." Of course, this expression also looks something like "feed me, I'm insane."

"Fine—you can have it _your_ way," I said, a reflex of being disparaging and obnoxious which I now see is a HORRENDOUS PROBLEM. Obviously, I am simply DRIVING HIM INTO THE ARMS OF SATAN.

**6:00 p.m. **– "I have to go out for a little bit," Jacques says cryptically, looking at me in an indecipherable fashion, as if he is trying to figure out how much I know about this situation involving those three little words. I am giving nothing away of course, by wearing a poker face which expresses only interest in eating chocolate. All of dinner, he kept looking up from the predictably excellent feast he prepared and gazing at me in this appraising fashion and asking me questions like, "Do you remember the day we met?" and other nonsense. I know he's simply trying to skirt around the issue at hand—that he's IN LOVE with Janine and for inexplicable reasons he feels he can't tell me, but he _can_ use my bathroom mirror to practice this blasphemy.

"Why?" I ask nonchalantly, trying my best to sound completely uninterested in his actions and future whereabouts, because in my role as a best friend, I also have to spend some time playing hard to get. I have decided that the only way to deal with men is to use the Rubber Band Theory on them constantly, because I have realized that my relationships come in cycles of elasticity. I had to give Harry time to pull away before he came snapping back on top of me at the breakfast table… which I am not talking about because my behavior was indecent and morally upsetting… though delightful… sigh… _concentrate! _I will clearly have to use the same logic on Jacques, giving him time to pull away (maybe his "love" for Janine is a manifestation of his need to pull away from me?) before he comes back and hopefully recovers from this madness.

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Five of Free Independence**

**Thursday, October 5****th****, 2005**

**The Fourth Day of Madness**

**10:10 AM**

**10:10 a.m. **– I woke up to find Jacques cryptically Flooing someone, and, not wanting to seem jealous or possessive or anything, I waited like a secret agent outside my door, eavesdropping unsuccessfully on the conversation. Lately, all Jacques seems to do is disappear and cryptically Floo people and give me strange looks. Yesterday night at dinner, he kept starting sentences and then abruptly ending them and smiling at me without any explanation; all our conversations were stilted and awkward and I can just _tell_ that he too has figured out how profoundly his _loving_ Janine is going to affect our relationship. How can he love her when I don't even like her? And what is love anyway? What has love got to do with it? If Tina Turner can figure it out, why can't Jacques see it too?

_Merde_, Percy is glaring at me. I suppose it's rather obvious that I'm not exactly doing official Ministry business. It's back to dismantling the latest batch of pagers… Seriously, who even uses pagers anymore?

**1:45 p.m.** – Today at lunch with Percy and his adorable cashmere sweater, he seemed more concerned than ever. "Fleur," he said, in the manner of a troubled parent or a guidance counselor, "I'm _worried_ about you. You don't eat—you look like you haven't gotten any sleep lately—you barely talk to me anymore. Is everything okay? Is everything okay… at home?"

Home? At these words I wanted to fling my arms into my sandwich hysterically and pour my tears into my tea. HOME!—where Jacques is, where I am losing Jacques day by day to this all-consuming passionate love he harbors for… dear God, it's the most horrid thing to think about! Two days ago, I heard Jacques talking to Janine through the fireplace. He was very much, "We have to talk" and "I have something very important to say." I was very much _passed out on the floor_. Percy's suddenly bringing my haggardness up in the middle of the workday was the final straw, the caring words that culminated in disaster. I immediately began crying into my Jell-O cup.

"Percy, I don't know what to do!" I shrieked. I was unable to see Percy's expression, but I'm sure it was rather the expression of someone watching a bomb explode in slow motion all over their impeccably selected outfit. He threw a monogrammed handkerchief at me. "I walked in on Jacques practicing telling his girlfriend he _loves_ her! Loves her, Percy, loves her! She's no longer a BFILF, a fantasy, a girlfriend, a lover—she's now _marriage, kids, picket fence_ _potential!"_

"And what's wrong with that?" Percy asked obliviously. "What's a BFILF?"

"Forget it," I sniffled, ruining his hanky. "All I know is she was my best friend for years, and then she started getting all mushy around Jacques and making things all weird… and then she stopped being friends with me for some stupid, petty reason, and now we're on non-speaks. But she and _Jacques_ aren't on non-speaks, and soon she'll be coming over for dinner all the time, and they'll be effing Frenching over the fantastic roast duck he cooks on Fridays, and having sex on the couch all the time, and forgetting I'm there—"

"I think you're overreacting," Percy said calmly.

"OVERREACTING?!" I screeched. "Percy, love supersedes friendship, and… I _saw_ him, Percy. I saw him when he was practicing what he was going to say, and he's in love. And sometimes when we're talking, he gets this far away look in his eyes and I can tell he's thinking about her and—" Everything suddenly coalesced to a colossal breakdown, a shoulder-shaking, head-in-hands breakdown.

Percy swung his chair over to my side of the table and slung his arm around my quaking shoulders. "You don't need to worry about a thing," he said softly. "Even if Jacques is in love with Janine, that doesn't mean that your relationship has to change. Besides, aren't you happy for him?"

My answer was a resounding NOOO, complete with sobs. "What's wrong with me, PW?" I asked, hoping that if I was weeping uncontrollably he would let me get away with calling him PW. "Why can't I handle this? Why can't I handle the fact that I'm no longer the only significant other in Jacques' life?"

Percy's only reply was a thoughtful "hmm" and a kiss on the cheek. I could tell he was thinking something he didn't have the words to express. "It'll be okay, sweetheart," he said. I had immense trouble believing him and instantly made plans to go swimming in a chocolate pool.

**4:20 p.m.** – Dying. Gasping for air. Looking at old pictures of Jacques and me (grammar? OH MY GOD, _what will I do without his grammar lessons)_, weeping softly, clutching tissues and a soft pillow. Have been eating ice cream all day under the pretense of a sore throat, not that Jacques noticed—he's out _as usual_, saying "I have a few things to attend to." What? Buying the ring? Oh God. Vomit. NO. Waste of ice cream.

Do you think Jacques would forsake all others and pay attention only to me if I had a near overdose on Haagen-Dazs?

**6:00 p.m.** – And my misery fest has moved to the floor with Beauxbatons yearbooks. We're right next to each other, Delacour and DeMontmorency… Look how cute we are! Well, I look sort of fat and obnoxious, especially in that asphyxiating necktie they insisted upon us wearing, but Jacques looks—

He's home! MERDE!

**7:30 p.m.** – It went like this: I was sprawled on the couch, lying on top of a pile of yearbooks and martini glasses filled with chocolate chip cookie dough, smiling like a teenage boy who had just gotten into his parents stash of Cuban cigars and was trying to grin the guilt away. Jacques looked at me suspiciously and asked, "What have you been doing all day?" I replied quickly with "nothing!" and picked up a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ which I was lucky enough to find under the couch. I told him I had to get caught up on current events, and he darted into his own room to… I don't know, think about Janine.

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Saturday, October 7****th****, 2005**

**The Sixth Day of Madness**

**9:02 AM**

**9:02 a.m. **– As I was walking through the living room, I happened to intercept a suspicious Floo from Janine. I was simply tidying up my surroundings, because I do that now, and _poof_—her obnoxious, pretty face popped up in the fireplace. "Jacques?" At which point she realized that it was not her gorgeous lover Jacques—it was me, the person she hates for completely irrational reasons and who wholeheartedly hates her back. "Oh," she said, not trying in the least to conceal her disappointment. "It's you." There was a short and uncomfortable silence. "Do you know where Jacques is?"

"_No_," I said curtly with an acidic smile. Admittedly, I have nothing to smile about, since I don't know where Jacques goes anymore, but as long as Janine doesn't know either, it's cool with me. "Actually, I _don't_ know where Jacques is. But I can take a message?"

"Oh no, that's okay," she said, and afterwards she paused to give me a suspicious look, even though I was the one with the right to be suspicious. "Could you just tell him I floo'd?"

I nodded compliantly. "Of course."

There is no way in hell I am telling him she floo'd.

**12 NOON** – An owl—clearly sent from the upper echelons of heaven to save me from my doubt-filled misery! Perhaps from Jacques, revealing whereabouts and at last confessing to me his intentions with Janine… or perchance lack thereof? No, alas… is from Harry.

Alas? What the _hell_ is wrong with me? Dear God, opening letter and attempting to talk a little sanity into myself…

_Fleur,_

_Maybe you could come over for tea and dessert, and we could discuss what happened between us at the Weasley's?_

_Love,_

_Harry_

Which is funny, because pretty much every Saturday since "what happened between us at the Weasley's," I have been over at Harry's "discussing" it. Discussing what happened at the Burrow generally includes sipping tea, making eyes at each other, trying to talk about nonsexual things like the newspaper and the weather, and Harry's prying into my relationship with Percy. It's a particularly torturous event that only a total masochist would arrange; mainly, we drink our Earl Grey (me, slowly; Harry, sensually) and try with all our might to mentally bulldoze the table between us. Last weekend, our weekly discussion consisted of: talking about a particularly fascinating _Daily Prophet_ article, looking out the window at the clouds, and thinly-veiled questions from Harry such as "How's Percy?" and "Soooo… how are you and Percy doing?" Occasionally during these discussions, we do extremely taboo things like stand closer than a foot apart, shake hands, and (oh sweet Jesus) _last week_, I dropped a fork, and we both reached for it at the same time, and OUR BARE FINGERS TOUCHED. I nearly fainted…

EFFING SHAG ME.

**4:00 p.m.** – Back from Harry's. Started off in the usual manner, with Harry opening the door bashfully—today he was wearing a demure blue Oxford that politely _asked_ to be ripped off instead of passive-aggressively demanding it. "Hello," he said, very Hugh Grant in _Notting Hill_ nervous. "Um, so last week, we never really got around to actually discussing what—"

"Harry, we never really do," I laughed, walking through the open door. By deviating from the script, I had clearly flustered him, and he forgot his next lines. While he fumbled for something intelligent to say, I contemplated shagging him on his kitchen counter.

"Um… the weather… the sky… the…" Harry paused thoughtfully before coming up with an inspired ad-lib. "How's work at the Ministry going?"

"Everything's going great," I said as Harry poured out a cup of tea. How Harry can even stand to look at himself in the mirror every morning is beyond me. How on earth does he manage not to pass out at his own attractiveness? Why won't he shag me? Why is Jacques in love with Janine? _Why?_ She's not even that pretty… she's not that nice…

"Fleur, are you okay?" Harry asked with tea in hand, stepping towards me in concern before checking himself and taking two steps backwards for fear that he might accidentally touch me.

"I'm fine," I replied, sitting down. "Everyone keeps asking me that—I'm _fine_." Everyone except Jacques that is, because he doesn't seem to mind that he is single-handedly destroying my emotional state. How _dare_ he! If he's going to take this humongous step, he should at least tell me—and if he's not going to tell me, he should at least care enough to figure out if I'm _dying_ perhaps! I sniffed indignantly at my tea and stared angrily at the crumpets.

"Fleur, you don't _seem_ fine," Harry said, sitting down next to me, his hand grazing my knee in a way that made me want to throw myself at him. Actually, the past week has been spent in this fashion—in a mental tug-of-war beteen Screw Jacques and No, Seriously, Screw Harry. "Is it something with…Percy?"

_Mon dieu, sacrebleu ! NON ! Ne posez pas cette question !_

"NO, Harry it is _not_ something with Percy—this has nothing to do with Percy whatsoever," I stated dramatically, hysterically. "This has to do with the fact that _some_ people just won't tell _other_ people how they're really feeling, and instead insist on hiding their emotions through a complex network of secrets and lies." I then proceeded to stare wistfully out the window on which all of our meteorological conversations were based.

Harry took hold of my hand and forced me to look at him, which caused all sorts of dizziness and vertigo at his devastating good looks. "Fleur, I know I've been unfair to you, and I suppose now is the time to make things absolutely clear. If I had my way… oh God, if I had my way, Fleur, we'd be together right now. But I can't—we can't—you're still with Percy, and we can't do this. As much as I want to—" I opened my mouth to correct him, but before I could say anything, Harry was giving me the last kiss of a lifetime, the sort of kiss that makes fireworks seem ordinary and instead sets off neon DO ME NOW signs in your head. And just as I was saying yes, Harry was already pulling away to say depressing things. "As much as I wish I could do this all the time… I can't." I started to feel a little suicidal… and worse than that, a sign of my insanity—that the instant Harry stopped kissing me, I started thinking about Jacques.

**10:30 p.m.** – Ugh… so Harry's refusing to touch me and therefore refusing to repeat today's "discussion," which I fear will be our last; Jacques is always writing letters, Flooing Janine, and gazing off philosophically; Renée won't stop sending me different styles of wedding invitations and asking me which one I like best; I CAN'T SLEEP. I figured that I should go to sleep early tonight, because I'm stressed and I have too much on my plate, but as it is, all I can do is toss and turn and listen to how annoyingly audible my breathing is.

**11:45 p.m.** – I need to know that everything will be all right… that if Jacques decides that Janine is the Renée Zellweger to his Tom Cruise, things won't change. What if he moves out… and doesn't write, or speak to me anymore? Oh dear God, I have to go make sure I don't lose him.

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Sunday, October 8****th****, 2005**

**Morning Sickness**

**2:06 AM**

**2:06 a.m. **– Just got back from Jacques's room. He was lying there so peacefully that I almost didn't want to wake him up… but then I realized that Jacques's well-being is the not the important part of this situation. I tiptoed over and poked his shoulder. "Jacques… Jacques… _wake up_…" He turned over and kicked at his sheets. Clearly _not_ awake. "Jacques!" I hissed.

"Fleur…" he murmured, turning around again. I briefly pondered the location of my megaphone, and whether or not it would be worth it to retrieve it from the recesses of my closet. I voted, and reached the conclusion that my voice was megaphone enough.

"JACQUES!"

He jerked awake, looking around in a singularly bewildered manner. "Fleur?" he exclaimed as his eyes widened—with good reason since this was past midnight and I was already invading his personal space. "Jesus! Am I wearing pants?"

"Doesn't matter. Scoot over." So I hopped into bed with him, and he was probably mentally cursing the fact that I had ruined his hospital corners or something. "Look…" Except for Jacques looked kind of dazed and far away, even though he was right next to me, and he wasn't exactly being a stickler for eye contact. "No, seriously—look at me."

"Yeah?" he said, taking a deep breath, since conversations with me (actually, any conversations that aren't with his One True Love) are probably incredibly painful for him to participate in, requiring vast reserves of strength amassed from hours in the gym and total immunity to my insanity. "I'm looking at you." And so he was, however dazedly, considering the fact that it was about one a.m.

"Where have you been lately?" I asked tentatively, wishing I had a cup of ice to nervously crunch on, or—as I would have done otherwise—Jacques's hand to clench. Considering the fact that I had invaded his personal space in the wee hours of the morning, I decided it would have seemed clingy and frightening to grab on to his arm for dear life.

He did the shifty-eye thing again. "Um, around. I've been… you know. Tutoring stuff." Oh my God, seriously? These are the kinds of things you tell your parents when you've been doing lines off of your significant other's chest at three o'clock in the morning and they ask you how your weekend was.

"Sure?" I asked, hoping that by intensely staring at Jacques, I would somehow compel the truth to burst spontaneously out of him. Unfortunately, the truth was still at bay, so I opted for further prompting. "Because… because it feels like you're using any excuse you can to get away from me."

"No! _No_. You don't…" This was awkward, I suddenly realized. Why was this so awkward? "I don't want to be away from you, Fleur, it's not that. God, I want… no, it's not that I want to be away from you."

"Well…" I wasn't sure I wanted to hear him say it. Then again—maybe I need to hear him say it, so he can finally start being honest with me, and then I can go through a couple of days/months of killing myself in that same blasphemous bathroom, Janine can cheat on him with an accountant or something, and then we can all go back to normal. None of this can happen if he insists on keeping the way he feels about that lying whore a secret from me. Doesn't he get that? I thought he might, so I gave him a second chance: "Is there something else?"

"Fleur…" He paused. It looked as if he were _literally _biting his tongue. "No. No."

And Jacques blinked rapidly and ran his hand through his really ridiculously messy hair and listened as the second chance whizzed by…

"Look." THIRD CHANCES, PEOPLE. "You don't have to tell me what's going on or anything—I understand. But… just don't go. I need you here."

This was very Lifetime movie of me, I know.

And even though I knew he was keeping things from me, and even though I was angry at him for being so stupid and having such terrible taste in sluts, excuse me, girls, I closed my eyes and pretended it wasn't all happening. And Jacques put his arms around me the way you'd put your arms around a time bomb, and I let him hold me until I fell asleep.

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Five of Free Independence**

**Saturday, October 8****th****, 2005**

**Déjà Vu **

**8:20 AM**

**8:20 a.m. **– He was doing it _again_. I was walking past his room with _no ulterior motives whatsoever_ when I heard him talking to himself. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he was saying—I made a few quiet gagging noises and then walked by his door again. "Tell her. No, you shouldn't tell her. If you tell her… what if she doesn't love you back. What if she loves someone else?" _That bitch! Why would she love someone else? _"But if she does… if she did, you would have noticed by now, or she would have said something—dropped some sort of hint. Oh, but what if she's too scared—"

I fled the scene, furious at that Janine, that whoreface Slutty-McSluttenheimer. What does she have to be scared of?

**12 NOON** – Floo from Renée. Urgently wanted to hide by stuffing self into laundry machine, but Jacques is being helpful and wonderful and doing the laundry for me so I won't be tempted by my self-destructive tendencies. God, that stupid… I'm running out of bad names to call Janine. Damn it. Butthead.

Anyway, Renée floo'd to make my life hell. "Oh gross," she said when she saw me, even though I actually got dressed today (okay, so it was the only thing I could rescue from the laundry basket—this crumpled grey pantsuit from the eighties that Mum sent me in the mail once she found out I had a job). "Sweetie, whatever happened to that diet of yours? All the bridesmaids' dresses we bought are size two…"

"Renée, I really do not have _time_ for this," I said frankly, tugging at the gross grey tweed of my mum's closet purge. "I have to… um… there's some leftover filing—"

"No, there isn't," sniffed Renée, lighting up a cigarette and signing a wedding invitation at the same time. "I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. So, you know how my wedding is next June?" I nodded and watched sentimentally as Jacques carried up a load of fresh laundry—how cute. "Okay, so Aylesford is getting a _wee_ bit suspicious after he found a black silk vest in our suite, and I'm not quite sure our caterer, Alexei, will be as nice now as he was in the elevator last Thursday. So basically, our wedding has been moved to the 18th of December! Yippee!"

"Um, Renée, that's _two months from now_."

"Oh, I know—that's why you have Sister Duties to attend to. I'm going to need a bridal shower and a bachelorette party, you _have_ to not look like a cow for the next two months, and you must find Alexei someone else to do, and _soon_ because I'm getting really sick of the lack of catering going on." She rolled her eyes, because her life is _so_ hard.

"Renée, I know this is hard for you to realize, but I have my own life and my own problems to attend to. Jacques is falling in love with Janine, that twit of an ex-best-friend of mine? I have no idea where I stand with Harry, because I'm faking a relationship with my coworker Percy, who hasn't come out to his family yet! Do you not understand that this is _nuts?_ My life is a wreck. I don't care what bridesmaids' dress you put me in. I don't care what color your napkins are. You can screw the caterer, the waiter, the wedding planner, the wedding singer, and the best man for all I care. I will show up at the wedding on the 18th and give you my best wishes and a blender, but I don't have time to give you 150% right now."

I took a deep breath and spent about three seconds being proud of my speech before I realized that Renée was staring at me in deadly, intense silence.

"_Fleur_," she began slowly in one of those frightening Meryl Streep-esque hisses, "I know that _this_ is hard for you to realize, but the fact that your life is a pathetic black hole filled with failed romances and homosexual farcical romps really doesn't interest me. Somehow you are going to get your fat ass out of that hideous pantsuit and drag it to the gym. You are _going_ to fit into that dress, and even though it's lavender and will make you look like an Easter egg, you're going to like it. You are not going to get me a _blender_; you're going to get me a heartfelt and possibly jewel-encrusted token of the enduring sisterly love we've shared since childhood. And if I feel like it, I _will_ screw the caterer, the waiter, the wedding planner, the wedding singer, _and_ the best man, because this is _my wedding_, and I will do _whatever the hell I want_. And I when I ask you to distract and possibly bang Alexei, you will say, 'How hard?' Got me?"

I gulped, getting that familiar feeling that my sometimes-maniacal, neurotic older sister would actually whip out her wand and Imperius me into doing her bidding and that if I crossed her, she'd probably just kill me. She'd always wanted to be an only child.

"Um, fine—"

"Good. Now I don't know or care what you wear to work out, but I have a feeling that a fashion felony from twenty years ago isn't exactly a standard uniform for a four-mile run. I want to see you five pounds lighter two weeks from now, ten by November." She had the air of a general explaining complex military strategy to a fourth-grader. "I can't have people judging me based on my pudgy little sister. If I don't feel that you're giving this endeavor the utmost attention and concern, I'll leak your little sob story to _The Snitch Report_. I'm sure they'd love to hear about you playing house with a flaming Ministry worker. Percy, was it?"

_Merde._ "Renée—"

"Oh save it, you bore me—just _go_," Renée sighed, tossing her infuriatingly blonde hair and sampling a slice of wedding cake. "You keep up your end of the deal and I'll keep mum about your darling little fruitcake."

**4:00 p.m. - **_Affolé d'Affaires Courant_

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 140…. Uh-oh. So that's 135 by the 22nd and 130 by November? _Salaud. _

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Would be totally resolved if _Harry would just do me_. But I suppose that's not new, is it?

Pilates Minutes: 15 and then I gave up, because my non-abs were on fire, and I thought I should probably call a doctor.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: Couldn't stop thinking about Harry, which made me inevitably upset; couldn't stop thinking about Jacques, which made me more upset. Instead decided to focus on a neutral party, so: 127.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 34. Got bored of brunettes.

HP-thinking Minutes: Forever. Why does this category continue to exist?

HG glares: Zero, I've been hiding.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 365 to 1. The carefully orchestrated mating dance Harry and I seem to be doing is ridiculous, painful, and causing lust spikes like no other.

Overall Day: DEATH.

**6:00 p.m.** – "Fleur," Jacques calls the instant I walk in the door, "I was a little too busy to make dinner tonight—do you wanna order in?"

After a productive day of whites, brights, and colors, no wonder Jacques didn't have time to cook. It dawns on me suddenly that I let Jacques be my maid whenever he comes home, and I just sit around feeling sorry for myself while he takes care of me all the time. I swear, if he doesn't stop looking at me like that, like he wants to just take care of me forever, I will move out.

"Um, sure." I flop down on the couch, fully aware that Jacques is still making worried-eyes at me, as if he's worried I'll stumble upon some vast secret or is waiting for me to suddenly explode with anger and do something crazy—in the manner of an abusive partner or similar.

"Chinese?" he offers, sitting down next to me.

"Oh, I can't have rice… or noodles… or anything with carbs. I'm on a diet."

"Can't that diet start tomorrow?" he smiled, tossing me menu.

I caught the menu and threw it on the coffee table. "No, I have to lose fifteen pounds pronto," I said resolutely, thinking of Percy, how mortified he would be to see his personal life splashed across Page Four, a campy story of how I was once again lying and pretending my way through England with Percy as a casualty of war.

"Fleur…" Jacques shifts, facing forward, looking out the window. "You shouldn't be on a diet," he says stubbornly, looking at his hands. "You're beautiful," he mumbles.

I suddenly feel as if I'm going to cry, so I quickly kiss Jacques on the cheek—so quickly that Jacques seems to start, and I go to my room, and I lock the door.

**Day Two-Hundred-Forty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, October 11****th****, 2005**

**Causing Concern**

**9:15 AM**

**9:15 a.m. **– "Fleur," Percy begins, looming over my desk as he so rarely does, green silk tie flapping gallantly in the light breeze of the Ministry's drafty second floor. "You're crying into a bag of telephones."

"No, I'm not," I sniffed, grabbing a tissue and yanking an ancient rotary phone out of the sack, not really caring how many Muggles lost their hearing after using it. I was calm and composed for several seconds. I blew my nose and threw the wadded-up tissue in the trash can, wiped my eyes, and blinked expectantly at Percy. "See? I'm fine."

He stared. I started bawling.

**12 NOON** – Percy ended up sitting with me underneath my desk (so that officials such as Mr. Twycross wouldn't pop over and read us the riot act over our lack of worker productivity) while I ruined seven of his embroidered handkerchiefs. I was gulping, I was gasping, I was _wailing_. It was terrible. "Percy," I was saying, "the other night, he was trying so hard to be nice to me, and he was being so wonderful, and I realized that I can't _do this_, Percy. I can't let him _leave_."

Percy dabbed at my eyes and looked pensive. "Then maybe you should tell him how you feel?"

"What?" I replied. "I should say, 'Sorry, Jacques, but the idea of you confessing your love to your girlfriend makes me want to put a fork through my own eye. Could you, like, not love her? Thanks.' I mean, I want him to be happy, just not with… her." I looked at Percy and saw that he was giving me a look, one of those looks that say: _maybe this is where a psychiatrist should intervene or perhaps a psychic._ "I know that sounds selfish, and I _am_ being selfish, because who is going to be with me when he leaves? Who's going to make dinner, and who am I going to have witty banter with? For God's sake, who's going to entertain my childish notions with a certain amount of humor and disdain—who's going to gently tell me that I'm acting like a five-year-old without actually making me feel like crap? What am I going to do? I feel like if he left, I would be kind of… empty."

"I'm sure he wouldn't leave completely," Percy insisted. "He's your best friend—I don't think he would drop out of your life entirely just because he's decided he's in love with this Janine character. Maybe he would stay over less often, move back in with her—" I gasped suddenly at the mention of this prospect and Percy paused, alarmed. "Um, well, _only_ if they got more serious. And it's not as if he'll stop thinking about you or anything like that—he won't _forget _about you—"

"Oh, Percy, of course he'll stop thinking about me. He stops thinking about me whenever he's with her. When he was staying with her all of August, he barely even spoke to me! It's almost like he's _trying_ to forget me, or she's trying to make him forget me. I just… I…"

"Fleur, you know what I think?" Percy said finally, after a long silence. "I think that you might not want to admit it to yourself, but…" He paused again as I wiped my eyes and looked up at him. "Um, actually… you need a break, I think, from all of this… stress. Come with me to the Ministry Halloween Party."

"Hmm?" Excuse me? The Ministry hosts Halloween parties? Oh God, they're probably like extreme versions of Model UN conferences, and people think it's especially hilarious if you can do a great impression of the Secretary General.

"No, I promise it will be fun!" he beamed, his adorable freckled face flushing with color. "Everyone dresses up, some people coordinate their costumes, and we discuss various political…" He must have noticed my eyes beginning to glaze over. "And there's lots of alcohol, and sometimes people make out on Cornelius's desk."

Yippee! I sniffed. "Could we, um… could we be one of those couples that coordinates their costumes?" I started to picture Percy and I going as one of history's great loves, like Marc Antony and Cleopatra or Romeo and Juliet… or probably more fittingly, Liza Minnelli and David Gest. WE COULD GO AS LINDSAY LOHAN AND HER COKE HABIT. (Is it wrong that I kind of love her and want her to get her life together so that it's okay for me to like her again?)

"Yeah, yeah," said Percy, picking himself off the floor and leaning back on my desk. "We can do whatever you want. I just want you to be happy. I really owe you."

"You'll think of someway to repay me," I joked, getting up off the floor. Let me just say: the look on Arthur Weasley's face when he saw my head rising up from the vicinity of Percy's well-pressed khaki pants… well, that was priceless. That being said, I wanted to immediately commit suicide.

"Um, hi, Mr. Weasley," I said awkwardly.

"Oh… hi," he smiled amiably, looking uncomfortable. "Um… I'll let you two kids get back to—"

"Oh! _No_—"

I turned to Percy as Percy was turning to me, and we both spontaneously collapsed into a fit of giggles.

**Day Two-Hundred-Fifty-One of Free Independence**

**Friday, October 14****th****, 2005**

**Playing Dress Up**

**9:15 AM**

**9:15 a.m. **– I don't think Percy quite anticipated the ramifications of agreeing to coordinate our costumes. I was doing some brainstorming, as well as polling various coworkers of mine, and you would be surprised what couples' costumes have trotted through this Ministry! I was expecting the usual Marie and Pierre Curie, Voltaire and Emilie du Chatelet, Napoleon and Josephine, or maybe Victoria and Albert if we're going be all _English_ about it. Apparently, people here really "push the envelope" as Percy put it… Apparently _some _ministry workers don't leave much to the imagination. Not to sound like a slut or anything, but I have a feeling that I am going to be one of those ministry workers.

**10:30 a.m. **– All right, I've run through the first draft of potential costumes, and will pitch it to Percy over lunch. I'm thinking: We could go as Robin Hood and Maid Marion! Percy could wear tights and prance around and have a bow and arrow—boys love bows and arrows—and _no one _would suspect that he swings in the other direction! And I could wear one of those elaborate old-timey costumes with humongous sleeves. It would be lovely and totally campy and great.

OR: We could go as Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. Okay, to be quite honest, I was always kind of disappointed in the way Peter Pan treated Wendy. He blatantly ignored how much Wendy totally wanted him, for which I don't blame Tinkerbell—however short that skirt was and however ambiguous her and Peter's relationship might have been—I blame Tiger Lily. I mean, that was a stripper name if I ever heard one, and what guy can resist short, shredded skirts and feathers? I mean, what else can you expect from a boy who refuses to grow up?

Pros to this costume: I get to wear a cute little dress that's appropriately sparkly and involves wings, and my shoes will have curlicues on them. It would be darling. Also, I think there are very appropriate parallels between _moi _and Percy and Tinkerbell and Peter. I'm the sidekick who's always getting into trouble and who doesn't actually say intelligible things—Tink is mute, and I blubber incomprehensible words of despair under random desks. Peter Pan is a boy waging war with an obnoxious, bearded old man (totally Mr. Twycross, who really should have his hand swallowed by a crocodile) who likes to fly off to Never-Never-Land and frolic with other boys—yeah, I'm going to stop the comparison right there. Percy would wear… Okay, it totally doesn't matter what Percy wears. I'm the one with the infatuated roommate here—Percy will wear what matches.

Or, still, we could go as _great loves! _He could go as Antony and I could go as Cleopatra! This sounds even better than it did on Tuesday! I could wear lots of gold lamé, bangles, and gaudy eye makeup; Percy could wear a toga, or one of those delightful helmets, or whatever it is that Roman generals wear. We could go as Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston, and maybe if Janine shows up to complete this triangle, she can be a total psycho vampire-skank who's only _pretending_ to be a good person—oh WAIT!

I'm being cruel. But she freaking deserves it. Knowing Janine, she'll probably show up with Jacques's blood in a vial around her neck, after having _banged_ him in a freaking limo on the way to the party, where she'll hop into bed with Percy and reveal that he's not gay, it's just impossible for anyone to be sexually attracted to me. And then I'll date John Mayer!

Anyway, must confer with Percy about his tights policy.

**12 NOON **– Lunch with Percy. Percy's main concern seems to be whether or not our costumes will be taken, which, if we go the Peter Pan route, they totally won't be. Percy's other concerns include:

"Fleur, what if people suspect my…?"

"Gayness?" I add, delving into my salad—which I am pretending to enjoy now that Renée is threatening to out my un-boyfriend if I don't lose fifteen pounds by her freaking wedding. I feel like Little J, and Percy is my non-bitch version of Asher.

"SHHHHHHHH," Percy hisses, as if the fact that he is actually putting one finger to his mouth isn't already tipping everybody off. I have also got to tell him to stop talking flamboyantly with his hands.

"Don't worry about it, Perce," I assure him, pretending to love the taste of vinaigrette. I'm dipping my fork into it and not draping it all over my disgusting Ministry half-green lettuce, of course. Seriously, can't I lose three pounds like right now, just for how good I'm being? "If things get really bad, and Brian the Intern starts giving you the eye, I'll just make out with you in a very obnoxious way that says: 'No questioned sexuality here!' It'll be fine."

"Right," Percy nods, picking a stray piece of lint off of his argyle sweater. He leans forward and rests his chin on his fist, the way they make you do in cutesy Bambi-themed portraits when you're five. I should probably remind him to stop doing that too. "And what if the BWL sees?" I'm very proud that Percy has started calling Harry the BWL, but incredibly alarmed at the nature of this question.

I stare, goggle-eyed, at Percy—horrified that he would even bring up the subject of Harry, as if he's completely forgotten my fragile emotional state. I backtrack into denial and feigned flippancy. "Why should I care if Harry sees? He thinks we're in a relationship anyway—nothing's going to happen," I remember wistfully, wondering if Harry could "look for a napkin" again and we could be one of those couples who makes out on Cornelius's desk.

"That's interesting, because as I recall, you two were behaving rather intimately on my breakfast table," snorted Percy as I turned a shade of crimson that Jacques would recognize.

"I WAS MOSTLY CLOTHED," I corrected loudly (as various Ministry officials who actually have the sense to have a working lunch glared at me inquisitively), which was mostly true. "Besides, Harry… Harry's being really stupid right now, and he won't just undress me, because he's too decent of a person, so even if he loses his self-control long enough to, say… blow my—_mind, _Percy, I saw that look, you dirty boy—over a breakfast table, he certainly won't lose his senses long enough to actually _be _with me."

"You'd be surprised what the Ministry Halloween Party leads to every year," Percy says mysteriously, with only the faintest air of prudish disapproval, which makes me wonder exactly what Percy has been doing at these annual Ministry parties, and whether or not my presence there will hinder any _other _activities that may occur on or under Cornelius's desk. "_Semper paratus_," Percy says, finally returning back to Earth after a few moments spent in some recollection in God knows where—perhaps on cloud nine?

"Be faithful?" That might be too much to ask—especially if Harry shows up looking as unintentionally sexy as I've trained him to be.

"No—be prepared."

**5:00 p.m.** – I have this horrible feeling that Percy's right, and I should be prepared for this party—because whether or not Harry can control himself is up in the air, but I'm almost positive that I can't control myself any longer. How long have I been lusting after him? It feels like it's been forever, and we're finally on the brink of something, and I think all it would take is one push… Maybe I should stop waiting for someone to push me?

**7:45 p.m.** – Jacques made me dinner, which was very lovely of him, but I couldn't concentrate on any of it, because my head was swimming with thoughts of his _beloved_ Janine and what I'm going to do about Harry, and the last thing on my mind is _steak frites. _My eyes just wandered around the room for what felt like hours before finally landing back on Jacques, who was saying something that I'm sure was wonderful about our friendship. He was wearing that sweater that I bought him back in our Sixth Year, and I remember thinking he was sick, because it was absolutely freezing in the apartment, and he was turning red. Or maybe that was the candlelight. This horrible sense of dread just flooded through me—it started at my toes, and by the time Jacques started talking about the three of us, how great we were together—me, him, and Janine—my head was so consumed with fear that I wanted to scream.

"And, God, Fleur, that just brings me to what I wanted to say," he was saying, practically clutching the tablecloth, trying to catch my eye as I tried to find a conveniently located window to look out of. "I mean… Look, Fleur, there's something that I really have to tell you—and I don't know if you already know, and I know I was gone a long time, and I know this will probably be hard for you, but I have to tell you—you're my best friend, Fleur—and—"

I actually thought I was going to throw up. I couldn't do it. I couldn't listen to Jacques talk about how much he's in love with Janine and watch him drift away from me.

"_Don't_," I said abruptly, and I think I sounded scared or upset, because Jacques looked alarmed. "Okay? Just _don't_. I know what you have to say, and I'm sorry, but I can't hear it, okay? I know it sounds selfish, but trust me: it would ruin things for you and me."

There was a remarkably long silence, and I thought he was going to yell at me or storm off and leave, but he just swallowed hard and said: "Okay. Um… yeah. I guess I should have… Okay." He started clearing the plates away immediately, and he blew out the candles, and I felt like a huge bitch—but it _would _have ruined everything, I know it would have, and now he realizes that if he's going to be with Janine, then I want no part of it. He paused at the sink and looked back at me. "Can we… can we just never talk about this again?"

That is absolutely fine with me.

**Day Two-Hundred-Fifty-Seven of Free Independence**

**Thursday, October 20****th****, 2005**

**Being Awkward**

**6:15 AM**

**6:15 a.m. **– All right, so Jacques is not happy with me. I think I realized that was going to happen. However, I did not realize that this meant that I could no longer speak to him, because that is what seems to be happening. He tiptoes around me _all the time_, and it's driving me crazy, because stopping him from telling me about Janine was supposed to save our friendship, not ruin it.

**7:00 a.m.** – "I'm, um, going to work," I announce quietly to an unusually silent and spotless apartment. Ever since Friday, Jacques has just been cleaning every surface of the apartment, like he wants to _erase_ me or something. Right now, he's dealing with the kitchen sink, and therefore does not have the capacity to multitask and _speak to me_. "Okay, fine," I mumble, heading out the door.

**12 NOON **– "He's not speaking to me, Percy," I explain, gesturing in violent despair with my fork. "When he does it's: 'I already did the laundry, Fleur,' or 'Dinner's in the fridge, Fleur,' or 'I'm charming the dust out of this rug, could you not walk on it, Fleur?' I told him I didn't want to hear about his stupid girlfriend—NO, his stupid _hook up buddy_—and now he won't talk to me. What the hell did I do?"

Percy sighs. "Are you sure that's what he wanted to talk to you about?" he asks, probably exhausted by this conversation, one which we have been having on repeat for the past week, like an overplayed song on the radio. He's probably unbelievably sick of me and would rather be checking out more new interns.

"I'm positive, Percy—what else would he be talking about?"

"I think you need to have a conversation with him," says Percy thoughtfully, "about where you two stand now. You're going to go crazy if you don't." I paused hesitantly, the way five-year-olds do before proclaiming _I don't wanna_ and then bursting into tears. "Fleur, if you don't talk to him, I'll have to—and I think we both agree that that's a terrible idea."

Talk to him? So much easier said than done.

**Day Two-Hundred-Sixty-Two of Free Independence**

**Tuesday, October 25****th****, 2005**

**Passing Notes in Class**

**12 NOON**

**12 NOON **– I still haven't talked to Jacques. I have instead been distracting myself by passing by Harry's apartment a lot, biting my fingernails to shreds, staring mournfully at old pictures of me and Jacques, and assuring Percy that: "Yes, of course, I've talked to Jacques. What makes you think I've been lounging on the couch sobbing all day? My mascara is _not_ running!"

**4:35 **– _Affolé d'Affaires Courant_

Name: Fleur Delacour

Height: 5 foot 8

Weight: 135_… _going down, very slowly, creeping towards a state of _not _obesity. Great, so I am no longer considered the elephant in the room in my apartment. That spot is occupied by Friday's dinner.

Hair: Blonde.

Eyes: Blue.

Lust Situation: Terrible. With regards to Harry, lust has become MUST.

Pilates Minutes: 2 freaking hours, just to distract me from the fact that I now live in a gleaming, immaculate mausoleum or library, where no one can speak, and I can only sneak around while Jacques sullenly grades papers in his room. It feels like something died in the apartment on Friday, and we're both tiptoeing around a coffin.

Orlie-thinking Minutes: 90. Day-dreaming can be a good cure for _total, irreparable life turmoil_.

Jude-thinking Minutes: 231.

HP-thinking Minutes: All the time.

HG glares: Only once, when I was lurking too conspicuously in the hall outside of Harry's apartment, and she popped her head out of Ron's apartment (I guess she's still staying with him, thank GOD) and looked at me as if I had risen directly from hell and had just taken the elevator up to her floor.

Overall Lust to Love Ratio: 34 to 5.

Overall Day: The appalling awkwardness of my living situation, combined with the pressure from my coworker to deal with the awkwardness of my living situation, compounded upon the fact that I am _desperate_ to be on top of Harry right now brings my day right up to a negative 2.

**10 p.m.** – I have just done something remarkably brave. I have slipped a note underneath Harry's door. SHUT UP. I know it's very fourth grade, but this is the best I can do! I _am _in the fourth grade, and Janine has cooties, and I don't want Jacques touching her! However, Harry has had more than enough cootie shots—I mean, he's immune to everything, including deadly curses—and he can do anything to me he likes. Um, well. Maybe fourth graders don't think quite like that.

Anyway, the note read—get ready for this: _Are you going to the Ministry Halloween Party? Fleur._

I KNOW, RIGHT? So brave.

_Merde, _I'm about ten years old.

**10:45 p.m.** – Note from Harry—also slipped under my door, which I was monitoring carefully just in case, retrieving said note while Jacques was sleeping in the confines of his bedroom, where he was been for seemingly two weeks. It reads: _If you'll be there?_ Oh dear. Could it be possible that Harry wants to be on top of me as much as I want to be under him?

Writing note back immediately. Or perhaps I should put this on time-delay, so that Harry doesn't think that I'm actually so desperate as to have sat by the door, patiently waiting for his reply. Will send note back in ten minutes. Hm. Well, it took him forty-five to send it. Maybe I should send it in one hour, to imply that I want him 15 minutes less than he wants me. Well maybe not fifteen minutes less—that's a little cold. I'll want him 7.5 minutes less than he wants me.

**11:37 p.m.** – _Wouldn't miss it for the world. I'll be Tinkerbell—and you'll be…? Fleur._

**11:50 p.m.** – _Anything you want me to be. Harry._

**MIDNIGHT**– I am now wanting him five minutes less than he wants me, and sending over a note in eight minutes saying: _Then you'll be going as Harry James Potter? Fleur. _

**12:13 a.m.** – _The one who's desperate to see you?_ _Harry. _

**12:20 a.m.** – I definitely want him at least two minutes less than he wants me. Definitely. _That might be the one. It depends. How desperate exactly is this Harry Potter to see me? Fleur. _

**12:22 a.m.** – _Desperately enough to be at your door right now. Harry. _

**Day Two-Hundred-Sixty-Eight of Free Independence**

**Monday, October 31****st****, 2005 – Halloween**

**Thanking God, A Lot**

**6:27 AM**

**6:27 a.m. **– Thank GOD, Jacques was asleep. Of course, I opened the door. I think it's fair and not at all an exaggeration to say that Harry _leapt _on me. He nearly threw me against the door—it's a wonder that Jacques didn't wake up—and I think I'm not guilty of hyperbole if I say that I leapt on him too. We couldn't keep making out in the doorway, of course—the doorknob was digging into my back—so we made out on the dinner table (we, um, couldn't exactly tear ourselves away from each other long enough to get to the couch) for about nine years, periodically removing articles of clothing until I thought I heard Jacques's footsteps, threw Harry off of me, and told him I'd see him at the Halloween party—probably wearing more clothes than his particular state of undress at that moment.

I never thought I'd say "thank God it's Monday," but…

**8:12 a.m.** – Then again, why should Jacques care what I do with Harry? He's not even involved enough in my life to care, now, is he? As a matter of fact, he's not involved enough in my life to even really make eye contact with me. The closest we've come to a real conversation was this morning, when I said: "Don't worry about breakfast—I did the dishes," and he replied: "Thanks." Honestly, it's like, he looks at me for two and half seconds, and then he realizes that the mere sight of me wants him want to kill himself, so he goes back to awkwardly pushing his sleeves up and down.

Well. Who cares? Right? He's got… _Janine_, and I have Harry. Ish. I mostly have Harry in that sometimes he comes over and we make out. Oh dear God, am I Harry's hook-up buddy? Regardless. If Jacques wants Janine, I want Harry, and the whole world is at a happy equilibrium; actual conversations between Jacques and myself would only upset the happy equilibrium that we have reached through means that are _assez désagréable_ but nonetheless effective. Okay. So I just won't talk to Jacques, and he won't talk to me, and as long as we keep our lips otherwise occupied, we won't run the risk of violating our tacit agreement.

Oh my God, Percy would be so proud of me for saying "tacit agreement."

**12 NOON** – So Percy was not even remotely proud of me for my use of the words "tacit agreement." In fact, Percy is not even at lunch today. Percy is "really busy with some official stuff, Fleur—I've got to, um, take some files… to another office." What? What other office? Complex network of secrets and lies, I tell you, secrets and lies.

OOH. Maybe Percy's just being secretive about the fabulous curly-toed shoes he bought for our Peter Pan costume—I knew he would be a little self-conscious about that; he probably had a nice pair special ordered, and he's dashing off to make sure that his owl has delivered them in time. Oh, Perce, totally unaware that I have his costume totally covered. Yesterday, after work, in (what was totally not) an effort to avoid making eye contact with Jacques, whose looks can now be described as _alarmingly pained, _like Edward Cullen smelling Bella's "outrageous flavor" in Biology, I went shopping.

I purchased this totally fabulous strapless silver dress—maybe a little too short, but it's a Halloween party! Also, Percy and I are breaking up today, so I thought I should "be prepared." And I'm wearing tights, so it's okay. And I have a pair of silver curly-toed shoes to match the ones that Percy's ordering, plus a pair of wings. My wand also glows in the dark now, which I thought might be helpful.

You know. In case it gets dark. Which it might. Under Cornelius's desk. I mean, not to imply that I'm going to end up there or anything, but… Harry's going to be there, and right now, I'd really like to not think about Percy, or Renée, or Jacques and that stupid whore he thinks he's in love with—I'd really much rather be under Cornelius's desk with Harry.

**5:20 p.m.** – Do you want to hear something crazy suspicious? So, as I was dashing back to the apartment to mentally prepare myself for a night of debauchery at the Ministry Halloween Party, who should I find racing _out_ of my apartment but a certain Percy Weasley? "Um, hi, Percy?" I said, raising my eyebrows (because I'm not skilled enough to raise just one) in a manner that said: Care to tell me what's going on?

"Oh, hey, Fleur," said Percy, in a very anxiously nonchalant way, as if he'd just run up a flight of stairs and was now pretending that he'd just been on a casual stroll. "I was just dropping by to check that… our costumes matched well. But then Jacques let me know that they do… in fact… match… well… so! That's that! Ha-ha!" laughed Percy inanely. There was an awkward and distrustful pause. "I'm going to go."

"You do that, Perce."

Okay, so Jacques will talk to my high-strung gay coworker and not me? Seriously?

**7:30 p.m.** – So I took an extra long shower, extremely pissed and unwilling to speak to the shady character sitting in the kitchen poring over Japanese notes. Eventually, I started to feel bad for the environment (even though those polar bears sometimes eat their young…), so I hopped out of the shower, grabbed my towel, and headed for my room. On the way there though, Jacques's freaking face stopped me. He's being very moody today—forest green is a nice choice of sweater color, because no one's going to accuse you of being moody for wearing it, yet, he was rocking it in the most sullen of ways—black coat slung over the chair behind him, super dark jeans, black shoes, his freaking messy hair in his face. Mm-hm. Very moody. And so _sullen_, especially the way lighting was falling on his chiseled features—I got very upset. So I was standing in the doorway to the kitchen in my towel, glaring at him, until he at long last looked up and said: "What?"

"You're making me hate you," I replied succinctly.

"Really?" Jacques breathed. I say breathed and not "said" because he literally just _exhaled_ this word, as if he'd been holding his breath since October 14th.

"Yeah," I replied eloquently. "And it sucks, because as mad as I get at you sometimes," I continued, dragging my left foot back and forth on the carpet, "I've never come close to hating you."

Jacques, literally, almost laughed. Like one of those "I'm laughing because five minutes from now I'm going to kill myself" laughs. "Fleur, I've never come close to hating you either."

"You have a funny way of showing it," I said, rushing to my room and shutting the door.

**8:45 p.m.** – So it's taken a good hour and fifteen minutes for me to get ready, but now I have an awkward fifteen minutes before Percy comes to pick me up that I need to spend avoiding Jacques. Perhaps I should spend said time coming up with a definitive game plan for tonight. Percy and I have already figured out the first half: The Break-Up. It's a very elaborate set-up; Percy should write screenplays. Basically, we will walk in, all body language coldness—he'll be very "come here," and I'll be very "don't touch me." And after ten minutes of me avoiding him, he will come over, super macho, super aggressive (hopefully Percy is a good actor), and be very Bradley Cooper, i.e. very dickish and unnecessarily affronted. "What is your problem, Fleur?" he will hiss, only very masculinely. "I don't have a problem," I'll say, coolly and cruelly, playing to the public image of me as Frosty-the-Snow-Bitch. "Is there somebody else?" This Percy will say loudly, at the most punctuated silence; I will give him an evasive look, down my martini, and migrate elusively into Harry's hearing range. Percy, naturally, will follow me to ask me again, desperately and indignantly: "Is there? Somebody else?" And I'll say: "_Yes, _Percy, there is," very exasperated, and the ice queen exterior will melt for a second, as if I am about to cry, wracked with guilt. "I can't help it. I just... this isn't working. This... it's over, Percy." To avoid any sort of "poor Percy" backlash, Percy will have to have a very dickish reaction to this, i.e. "You're going to regret this, Fleur Delacour. Your life in the ministry is over!"

I know. It's a little melodramatic, but I thought it would be cute, and Percy wants an opportunity to flourish his cape dramatically. After this, Percy will furiously bolt out the door (probably with Intern Brian), and I will stand thoughtfully like a wounded but resolute gazelle on the African savannah, waiting for a very attractive and heroic lion to pounce on her.

Seriously. It can't go wrong. Besides, I look pretty good tonight, if I do say so myself. I have never succeeded in making my hair look as romantic yet just-shagged as it does tonight—think Penelope Cruz in _Vicky Christina Barcelona_, very mussed, very wild, but in a really good way—like "I'm just tragically beautiful like this, don't question it." The eye makeup is fantastic. I had to look up so many spells, and I was terrified that the eyelash curler was going to take me out, since it was basically doing all the work itself, but I can kind of see in both eyes, so all is well. Plus, I read somewhere that Harry's favorite flavor is cherry (which I think is a little gross, but he can do whatever he wants), so I'm being Katy Perry tonight, very "the taste of her Cherry Chapstick." I kissed the Boy Who Lived, and I liked it? _Absolument._

And I've lost like five pounds already, so this short silver sparkly Roxie Hart dress doesn't look too shabby on me, I don't think. So hopefully, I won't be standing alone on the African savannah of the Ministry of Magic for too long.

Fabulous. _J'émerge! _

**9:00 p.m.** – And so, I emerged. Right on time, Percy knocked on the door, and I surged past Jacques in a desperate effort not to seem at all affected by his presence. I opened the door for my soon-to-be ex-fake-boyfriend, and Percy came into view, and _mon dieu, _our shoes matched perfectly. Sometimes I really love life.

"Fleur, you look gorgeous," Percy said, and I was really happy that he didn't say _gorge_ this time, because that is a red flag if I ever heard one. Percy inexplicably shot Jacques a look, and it occurred to me that perhaps his conversation with Jacques extended beyond costumes and my horrendous cooking skills. "Are you ready for this?" he asked, turning his attention back to me.

I snapped my gaze away from Jacques, who was staring at me in what appeared to be befuddlement and regret. "Hm?" _Ah yes, _the Ministry Halloween Party. "_Mais oui, cheri! _Showtime."

**12 MIDNIGHT – **When I said Showtime, I didn't mean like the channel. Like a drama-filled, sex-filled twenty-four-hour orgy set in 16th century England with mothers who sell pot. That's not what I meant at all.

Needless to say, the plan went all wrong. The first hint should have been that Percy forgot his wand at my apartment. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Fleur," he said, standing outside the door to the party, adjusting his forest green Peter Pan hat. The red plume complemented his hair perfectly, which was a shame, since _no one was going to see it_.

"Do you have to go back? It doesn't matter. And besides, my costume will look ridiculous without you!" There's something about standing alone at a party clad in a too-short silver mini-dress that doesn't scream seduction, but rather, desperation.

Percy patted my head in a loving fashion usually bestowed upon small dogs, completely misreading my worries. "Well, with all due respect, Fleur, I don't think anyone here knows who Peter Pan and Tinkerbell are."

Um, what? "Don't be ridiculous, Percy—it was a very popular play like a thousand years ago," I retorted. "And I'm sure some people have read the book, right? It's very amusing from a wizarding standpoint." I decided not to add the point about Johnny Depp.

"In any case, darling, I have to go back and get my wand," he said, looking quite apologetic and quite… dishonest, actually. "I feel dreadfully insecure without it. But please don't wander away; I think there's something very important you should know."

"Well, tell me now," I said, tapping my curlicue shoes on the parquet floors of the Ministry foyer. Somehow it seems that whenever I go to a party, I end up freezing, alone, and wearing a dress that in hindsight seems altogether inappropriate.

"Mm, no—I think it will all make better sense when I return," Percy said cryptically. I swear, he was much more open before I met him—but it seems all the men in my life thrive on confusing me.

I allowed _Worst Boyfriend Ever_ to disappear into the night and contemplated my entrance. Clearly, I was in no position to make Hermione Granger's "Madonna" entrance (the holy one, not the slutty one)—but at least no one would be watching me walk in. I could slip into the party unnoticed, and then wait until Percy came back so that we could break up. I would simply open and close the door very quietly, and mingle with the old stuffy gentlemen I knew from work until Perce rescued me. No one would see me. My dress wasn't _that _short. Harry probably wasn't there yet. Fine. Absolutely fine.

But then I opened the door, and stuffy old men were nowhere to be found. Instead, the room seemed to be overflowing with wait staff carrying enormous trays overloaded with champagne flutes, Marie Antoinettes cavorting carelessly with their Louis 16s, Prince Charleses holding hands with their Revenge Dress Dianas and making out with their horsey Camillas, mischievous angels chasing after scantily-clad devils, and quite a few ironic hipsters sporting HP scars on their acne-ridden foreheads. What in the name of sweet Jesus? The Ministry had gone decidedly mad. And dead ahead of me were four people I was _least _excited to see: (1) Remus Lupin, dressed inexplicably as a sheep, probably thinking that everyone would laugh and shriek "HAHAA, it's funny cos he's a _WOLF_—HAAAAA," which a few drunk people did; (2) Severus Snape, who is being crazy post-modern, and came as _himself_—or, maybe, an executioner; (3) Hermione Effing Granger, dressed as Maid Marion because that _bitch _is always one-upping me on the virginal thing, which is UNFAIR, since she is TOTALLY not a virgin, and I am SO JEALOUS, and her costume makes perfect sense considering: (4) Harry Potter, dressed like _sex_ in his Robin Hood costume. Nice. Hat. Cary Elwes isn't the only man who can pull off tights.

So um. My first instinct was to get drunk. So I grabbed a Bellini off of the first tray I could reach, and drained it in a record seven seconds, leaving the waiter judging me mercilessly, to which I mentally responded with: "You are a waiter. Stop judging me. I'm not the one wearing a silk man-vest and waiting for my acting career to take off." My second instinct was to hide, but the coat room was blocked by undesirable people, so I looked frantically around and darted straight for the bathroom.

_Pull yourself together, Fleur_, I advised myself sternly in the bathroom mirror. _Your eye-makeup is holding up beautifully, your thighs have almost stopped looking like baby orcas, and Harry Freaking Potter said he wants to be with you. So what if he's coordinated costumes with that evil bushy-haired psycho you hate—she probably caught a glimpse of it when he was bringing it back to his apartment. Whatever. So what if this bathroom-mirror dialogue is reminding you sharply of your early-October encounter with your now-distant best friend? Whatever. His loss. So what if Percy has been gone for all of five minutes and you already feel like dying? GET IT TOGETHER. Take a deep breath and remember the sage words of Lady Gaga: "Just dance. It'll be okay."_

And so I did. I emerged from the bathroom as I emerge from all things, like a radiant butterfly stepping out of her chrysalis into a bright new world filled with hope and iniquity. I embraced this iniquity and stepped confidently out into the room, humming: "I've had a little bit too much... all of the people start to rush..."

In particular, Draco Malfoy was rushing at me. I have no idea why God insists on torturing me with his consistent presence. From what I could ascertain, Draco was either dressed as Chuck Bass or the Joker, though neither of these options made any sort of sense. Maybe he just wanted an opportunity to wear purple? Or to grab my arm, pull me close, and absolutely nauseate me?

"Fleur?" he said fervently into my ear.

"Um, yes?" I said, panicked.

"We can never be."

And at that moment, my heart _didn't _shatter into a thousand little pieces. I decided it was wisest to just say nothing.

"I'm with Pansy now," he explained wistfully. "Snape told me you were interested, but I only date women of pure wizard heritage."

"I have to pee," I said, wrenching my arm away from him, and trying to think of a direction to walk in that wouldn't result in horror or pain. Glancing at the gilt clock on the wall, I prayed that Percy would show up in the next five minutes. How long could it possibly take to pick up a wand? God, you'd think he was passing along urgent messages, like some spy involved in some covert operation.

"Fleur, wait!" Draco exclaimed. Hatred really doesn't cut it anymore, does it? "Despite my... relationship... with Pansy," Draco began—the long pause explaining everything: clearly, what he had with Pansy was really more like a shag-and-run, a quasi-comitted hook-up relationship, if you will. "I feel _very_ _possessive of you_," he said slowly and intensely, as if he were trying to burn a hole in my face with his eyes.

"Am I supposed to find that sexy?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

I have no idea what Draco has been watching that has him convinced that what a girl really wants is a pale, stalkerish, slightly obsessive boyfriend, but about three things I was absolutely positive. (1) That Draco was choosing the sketchiest method of seduction possible, (2) that Harry was relentless eye-sexing me from across the room, and (3) that I was irrevocably and uncontrollably interested in letting him do whatever he wanted to me. Seriously.

Suddenly, all those things that normally sound like terrible, self-destructive ideas seemed incredibly logical, and I turned to Draco and announced loudly: "I'm going to get my coat."

Approximately 2.5 minutes later: _Wish I could shut my playboy mouth... how'd I turn my shirt inside out?_

I'll tell you how: I got stuck in a coat closet with Harry James Potter, that's how. If we're going to be blatantly dishonest, I have never put much thought into how I would lose my virginity. But Harry Potter seemed like a good way to go. And that's total honesty.

So I was pretending to get my nonexistent coat, when Harry Potter suddenly appeared between me and the coat closet door. "Fleur." Yes, Harry? "Tell me that I can just kiss you. Tell me that you and Percy are broken up."

Too. Drunk. To. Lie. "Oh, Harry, we were never really together."

And just like that, Harry had pulled me into the coat closet, where we were doing anything but putting on our coats. In approximately half a second, Harry's green Robin Hood hat was on the floor, my curlicue shoes had been tossed carelessly aside, Harry's doublet (wait, seriously—doublet?) had been ripped to shreds in the manner of a poorly-written Victorian romance novel, and we were both on our way to extremely fun bad decisions. Abruptly, we both looked up—taking a break from ruining each other's clothing and taking a simultaneous deep breath.

"Fleur, I don't want you to regret this," he said, looking adorably flushed and almost shy, as if he had just realized that we were stripping as fast as we could in a coat closet.

"I won't," I breathed. Granted, I was not entirely sure of this at the time, but Harry was looking at me as if he was seeing something glorious that he was perhaps afraid of defiling, and I was perfectly primed to be defiled. I had lingered too long in the land of the pristine, too long in a homeland of doubt, uncertainty, deception and denial. For once, I was determined to live my life, experience something, _feel something_, because I was so _incredibly _tired of living in an apartment so ridden with feeling that it was devoid of it. Is it terrible to want to express something in reality, not suppressed, not in jest—_something really, really felt?_ "I'm sure."

And Harry kissed me, and there were no strings holding us apart. No Hermione, no Michael, no Percy, no press. Just the pressure of Harry's lips on mine. And I felt wonderfully free to kiss him back, the kiss I'd wanted to give him since... ever? Since—I don't know, ASP or his Lucky Shamrocks or our unlucky towel escapades, or since he was sitting on my bed that morning in July, asking me to casually save the world with him. Or, actually, more accurately, since everything he said to Mrs. Weasley and to me at the Burrow.

And this is simple. This is simple in the way that Harry is—this whole time, it's been just his blushing adorable desires and his infuriating admirable integrity, and just those two things which occasionally come between us, but now they both are satisfied, and this is uncomplicated. And maybe the situation hasn't been—but he has, the same way that though Darcy and Elizabeth spun out a complex tale, their motivations were simple. And now there are no stupid secrets kept, no words swallowed, no hesitations—and have I lived my whole life in hesitation? Because it feels as if those moments when I am moving have been with Harry, those moments when I am _acting _have been with Harry.

And maybe thinking is overrated.

And that is what I am thinking when Harry is taking off my dress, and we are somewhere between a grey wool pea coat and some over-expensive mink PETA would die over. And soon, eyes-shut hands-clenched moments later, the worst is over, and Harry wants to know if I am okay, and I think I am. And he kisses me, and I could swear I am _really _feeling something. And Harry says "I think I'm in love with you, Fleur" after, and now I'm sure that have felt something _for once_ in the past month.

And before I can reply, like a knife slicing through the night's greatest silence: "Excuse me. I have to get my coat," says some stranger in a borrowed Peter Pan costume.

Because I was still putting on my stockings and Harry was still buttoning his shirt when we bumped into Jacques coming out of the closet.

* * *

**A/N:** Wow. That was long. The chapter and the wait. My dearest, sincerest apologies. (Obviously), this chapter was difficult to get through, but hopefully you enjoyed it? It's going to be a low-key summer, and I'm not making any promises, but hopefully updating will be better now that I've gotten over this hurdle. I love each and every individual reviewer; thank you for putting up with me. :)

Love, Femme Teriyaki


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